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Shaw
, both of them directors ofthe
Irish Foundation for the Fine Arts
, neither of them the sort that one finds in Arkansas, thought Fatty. Beneath that photograph was a slightly larger picture of
Mr. Rupert O’Brien
, the well-known critic, his wife,
Mrs. Niamh O’Brien
, the successful actress, currently appearing (as Juno) in
Juno and the Paycock
at the Abbey Theatre, and His Excellency, the Italian Ambassador to Ireland,
Mr. Cosimo Pricolo
, all sharing what appeared to be a most amusing joke. Fatty studied the photographs carefully. What was it about these people that made their lives seem so much more exotic and exciting than his own? He glanced at Betty, sunk in a copy of
Horse and Hound
. He wondered what he and Betty would look like on the social pages of
The Irish Tatler
. He allowed his mind to wander:
Mr. and Mrs. Cornelius O’Leary at Mountpenny House in County Tipperary. Mr. O’Leary, a noted antique dealer, is in Ireland to purchase fine Irish furniture for the American market. His wife, the daughter of a well-known Mobile real-estate broker …
    Fatty’s thoughts were interrupted by the entry into the room of a group of fellow guests, two women and a diminutive man in a tweed suit. The women, who looked sufficiently similar to be sisters, smiled at Betty and the small man gave a nod in Fatty’s direction. They moved over to the piano and one of the women self-consciouslysat at the keyboard and ran her fingers over the keys.
    â€œPlay us a tune, Ella,” said the other woman.
    â€œGo on,” said the man. “Satie. You do Satie so well, and everybody likes Satie.”
    The woman at the piano blushed. “I would not inflict myself …” she began.
    Fatty rose to his feet. “It would be no infliction, Ma’am,” he said. “My wife and I like Satie very much.”
    The woman looked down at the keyboard and began to play.
    â€œAh,” said Fatty, contentedly. “
The Gymnasium
.”
    They listened raptly – so raptly indeed that they did not notice others coming into the room. Only after the limpid notes had died away did Fatty look up and see that another couple had entered and taken a seat on the sofa by the fire. He looked at them for a moment, before turning to congratulate the pianist. But a vague sense of familiarity made him turn back and look again.
    The man, who was wearing an elegant, double-breasted suit and a subdued red tie, had a look of distinction about him. The woman, who was dressed in a dark trouser suit, had high cheekbones and almond eyes. Fatty had seen them before; he was sure of it.
    â€œThank you so much,” the man called out to thepianist. “A
Gymnopédie
before dinner. A perfect start to the evening. I feel quite limbered-up!”
    The woman laughed. “You play so well, my dear. Why don’t you continue?”
    â€œBecause I need a drink,” said the woman at the piano.
    At this point Mrs. O’Connor came in, wheeling a drinks trolley on which an array of bottles was placed. She looked round, as if counting her guests, and then announced that drinks would be served.
    â€œMr. O’Brien, I’ve taken the trouble to get you your usual,” she said to the man on the sofa. “You made me feel so ashamed last time – not having it in the house.”
    â€œYou spoil me, Mrs. O’Connor,” said the elegant man. “If you’re not careful, I’ll never stop coming here. You’ll not be able to get rid of us. We’ll move in permanently. We’ll
live
with you!”
    â€œI don’t think that the
Irish Times
would like that,” said the hostess, pouring a large measure of gin into a glass. “Nor the Abbey Theatre, for that matter.”
    Fatty listened, fascinated. They spoke so easily, exchanging this subtle repartee as if they were uttering the lines of a play. But it was the mention of the Abbey Theatre that triggered the memory,