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“Quirke,” she said.
    “Hello, Sarah.” How youthful and gauche he looked, leaning down at her, still smiling; a big blond overgrown boy. “I’m just delivering this black sheep home,” he said.
    Mal came into the hall then. Seeing Quirke he stopped, with that pop-eyed glare that made it seem as if something had become stuck in his throat. Maggie, grinning mysteriously to herself, made off for the kitchen without a sound.
    “Evening, Mal,” Quirke said. “I’m not staying—”
    “You most certainly are staying!” Phoebe cried. “Since they wouldn’t let me invite Conor Carrington I can at least have you!”
    She glared defiantly from one of the adults to the other, then blinked, her eyes swimming out of focus, and she turned, lurching a little, and stamped away up the stairs. Quirke was looking about for Maggie and his hat. “I’d better go,” he muttered.
    “Oh, but wait!” Sarah lifted a hand as if she would physically detain him, yet did not touch him. “The Judge is here—he’d never forgive me if you leave before you’ve at least said hello.” Without looking at Mal she took Quirke’s arm and turned him, mildly resisting, toward the drawing room. “When is it you were last here?” she said, speaking in a rush so that he might not interrupt. “Christmas, was it? It really is too bad of you, neglecting us like this.”
    The Judge was standing with a group of guests, talking volubly and gesturing with his pipe. When he caught sight of Quirke he gave an exaggerated start, throwing up his hands and opening wide his eyes. “Well, will you look who’s here!” he cried, and hurried forward, the abandoned guests smiling tolerantly after him.
    “Hello, Garret,” Quirke said.
    Sarah released him and took a step back, and the Judge tapped him on the breast fondly with a fist. “I thought you couldn’t come tonight, you rascal?”
    Quirke rolled his shoulders, smiling and biting his lip. He was, the Judge could see, three sheets over, or two, anyway.
    “Phoebe insisted,” Quirke said.
    “Aye, she’s a persuasive girl, that one.”
    The two men surveyed each other, watched by Sarah, smiling, and Mal, expressionless.
    “Congratulations, by the way,” Quirke said, with restrained irony.
    The Judge flapped a hand before him bashfully. “Go on out of that,” he said. “You wouldn’t want to take these things too seriously. Though, mind you, I’m hoping it will help my entry bid when I get to the Pearly Gates.”
    Quirke was tapping a cigarette on this thumbnail. “Count Garret Griffin,” he said. “It has a ring to it.”
    Mal coughed. “It’s Garret Count Griffin. That’s the proper form of address. Like John Count McCormack.”
    A brief silence followed this. The Judge twisted his lips in a sour smile. “Malachy, my boy,” he said, and laid an arm about Quirke’s shoulders, “would you ever go and fetch this thirsty man a drink?”
    But Sarah said she would get it. She was afraid that if she went on standing there she would break out in a shriek of hysterical laughter. When she returned with the whiskey Mal had moved away, and the Judge was telling Quirke a story about a case he had tried long ago when he was in the District Courts, something about a man selling a goat, or buying a goat, and falling down a well; she had heard the story before, many times, yet she could never remember the details. Quirke was nodding and laughing excessively; he too had heard the oft-told tale. He took the drink from her without offering thanks.
    “Well,” he said, lifting the glass to the Judge, “here’s to the purple.”
    “Oho!” the old man crowed. “It’s far from grand titles we were reared.”
    Phoebe came into the room, looking pale and slightly dazed. She had changed into slacks and a black pullover that was too tight at the bust. Sarah offered her a drink, saying there was lemonade, but the girl ignored her and went to the drinks table and splashed gin into a tumbler.
    “Well