Page 82 - a-portrait-of-the-artist-as-a-young-man

felt himself a gloomy figure amid the gay cocked hats and
sunbonnets.
But when he had sung his song and withdrawn into a
snug corner of the room he began to taste the joy of his lone-
liness. The mirth, which in the beginning of the evening
had seemed to him false and trivial, was like a soothing air
to him, passing gaily by his senses, hiding from other eyes
the feverish agitation of his blood while through the cir-
cling of the dancers and amid the music and laughter her
glance travelled to his corner, flattering, taunting, search-
ing, exciting his heart.
In the hall the children who had stayed latest were put-
ting on their things: the party was over. She had thrown a
shawl about her and, as they went together towards the tram,
sprays of her fresh warm breath flew gaily above her cowled
head and her shoes tapped blithely on the glassy road.
It was the last tram. The lank brown horses knew it and
shook their bells to the clear night in admonition. The con-
ductor talked with the driver, both nodding often in the
green light of the lamp. On the empty seats of the tram were
scattered a few coloured tickets. No sound of footsteps came
up or down the road. No sound broke the peace of the night
save when the lank brown horses rubbed their noses togeth-
er and shook their bells.
They seemed to listen, he on the upper step and she on the
lower. She came up to his step many times and went down
to hers again between their phrases and once or twice stood
close beside him for some moments on the upper step, for-
getting to go down, and then went down. His heart danced

82 A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man