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peasants. He really did try to believe in this fantasy of a great g o o d place that had been taken a w a y from us a n d o u r kind — o u r kind being Castle Catholics, as he liked to say, yes, sir* Castle Catholics* and p r o u d of it! B u t I think there w a s less pride than chagrin- I think he w a s secretly a s h a m e d n o t to be a Protestant: he w o u l d h a v e h a d so m u c h less explaining» so m u c h less j u s t i f y i n g , to d o . He p o r t r a y e d h i m s e l f as a tragic figure* a g e n t l e m a n of the old school displaced in time, I picture h i m on those S u n d a y a f t e r n o o n s w i t h Ms mistress* an a m p l e y o u n g !adys I surmise* w i t h hair unwisely curled a n d a g e n e r o u s decolletage, b e f o r e w h o m he kneels* poised t r e m b l i n g on o n e knee, g a z i n g rapt into her face, his m o u s t a c h e twitching* his m o i s t red m o u t h o p e n in supplication. Oh b u t I m u s t n o t m o c k h i m like this.
    R e a l l y , really, I did n o t think u n k i n d l y of h i m — apart, that 29

    laughter, and he frowned at them, pursing his little mouth so that it almost disappeared in the folds of his fat chin. He affected contempt for his clientele, though it was said he kept a bevy of boys himself, over w h o m he ruled with great severity, jealous and terrible as a Beardsleyan queen.
    I drank my drink. There is something about gin, the tang in it of the deep wildwood, perhaps, that always makes me think of twilight and mists and dead maidens.
    Tonight it tinkled in my mouth like secret laughter. I looked about me. N o , Wally's was not changed, not changed at all. This was my place: the m u r m u r o u s g l o o m , the mirrors, the bottles ranged behind the bar, each one with its bead of ruby light. Yes, yes, the witch's kitchen, with a horrid fat queen, and a tittering band of fairy-folk.
    W h y , there was even an ogre — Gilles the Terrible, c'est moi.
    I was happy. I enjoy the inappropriate, the disreputable, I admit it. In low dives such as this the burden of birth and education falls f r o m me and I feel, I feel — I don't k n o w what I feel. I don't know. T h e tense is w r o n g anyway. I turned to Wally and held out my glass, and watched in a kind of numbed euphoria as he measured out another philtre for me in a little silver chalice. That flash of blue when he added the ice, what am I thinking of? Blue eyes.
    Yes, of course.
    I did say dead maidens, didn't I. Dear me.
    So I sat in Wally's pub and drank, and talked to Wally of this and that — his side of the conversation confined to shrugs and dull grunts and the odd malevolent snigger —
    and gradually the buzz that travel always sets going in my head was stilled. I felt as if, instead of journeying by ship and rail, I had been dropped s o m e h o w through the air to land up in this spot at last, feeling g r o g g y and happy, and pleasantly, almost voluptuously vulnerable. Those ten years I had passed in restless wandering were as nothing, a 32

    dream v o y a g e , insubstantial. H o w distant all that seemed, those islands in a blue sea, those burning noons, and R a n d o l p h and Sefior Aguirre, even my wife and child, h o w distant. T h u s it was that when Charlie French came in I greeted him as if I had seen h i m only yesterday.
    I k n o w Charlie insists that he did not meet me in Wally's pub, that he never went near the place, but all 1
    am prepared to admit is the possibility that it was not on that particular night that I saw h i m there. I remember the m o m e n t with perfect clarity, the queers whispering, and Wally polishing a glass with a practised and inimitably contemptuous wrist-action, and I sitting at the bar with a b u m p e r of gin in my fist and my old pigskin suitcase at my feet, and Charlie pausing there in his chalkstripes and his scuffed shoes, a forgetful Eumaeus, smiling uneasily and eyeing me with v a g u e surmise. All the same, it is possible that