— There you are, he said, and grinning he touched the frail white stuff of her gown. She said nothing, and he sighed.
— All right, Liza, so I’m drunk. So what?
— So nothing. I said nothing. Your tie is crooked.
His hands went to the limp black bow at his neck, and went away again.
— It’s coming apart, he said. The knot is coming apart.
— Yes.
He held her eyes for a moment, and looked away. He said:
— You have a sobering effect, Liza. How do you live with yourself?
— You always pretend to be drunker than you are and then you blame me. That’s all.
— You know, I met a woman upstairs and thought it was you. She was laughing and I thought it was you. Imagine.
He put his hands into the pockets of his jacket and looked at the room. The couple had stopped dancing, and were standing motionless now in the middle of the floor, their arms around each other as though they had forgotten to disentangle them. Mor said:
— What are they waiting for? Why don’t they go home?
— You hate them, Liza said. Don’t you?
— Who?
— All of them. All these people — our friends.
He looked at her, his eyebrows lifted.
— No. I’m sorry for them — for us. Look at it. The new Ireland. Sitting around at the end of a party wondering why we’re not happy. Trying to find what it is we’ve lost.
— O Mor, don’t start all that.
He smiled at her, and murmured:
— No.
David put his head around the door, and when he saw them he smiled and shot at them with a finger and thumb. He crossed the room with exaggerated stealth, looking over his shoulder at imaginary pursuers. He stopped near them and asked from the corner of his mouth:
— They get him yet?
— Who? said Liza, smiling at his performance.
Mor frowned at him, and shook his head, but David pretended not to notice.
— Why, your murderer, of course.
Liza’s mouth fell open, the glass shook in her hand, and then was still. David went on:
— You mean you didn’t know about it? O come on now, Liza, I thought you and Mor had arranged it. You know — we’ve got everything at our party including a murderer loose in the grounds with the cops chasing him. You didn’t know, Liza?
— Shut up, David.
— O excuse me, said David, grinning, and coughed behind his hand. Liza turned to him.
— David, what is this joke all about? Seriously now.
— Well Liz, it’s no joke. Some tinker stabbed his girlfriend six times in the heart tonight. The guards had him cornered here when the rain came on. The way I heard it they left some green recruit to watch for him while they all trooped back to Celbridge for their raincoats. Anyway, they say he’s somewhere in the grounds, but knowing the boys he’s probably in England by now. Come over to the window and you can see the lights. It’s all very exciting.
Liza took a drink and laid down her glass. She said quietly, without raising her head:
— Why didn’t you tell me, Mor?
— I forgot.
— You forgot.
— Yes. I forgot.
David looked from one of them to the other, grinning sardonically. He said:
— Perhaps, Liza, he didn’t want to frighten you?
Mor turned and looked at David, his lips a thin pale line.
— You have a loud mouth, David.
He moved away from them, then paused and said:
— And uncurl your lip when you talk to me. Or I might be tempted to wipe that sneer off your face.
The smile faded, and David said coldly:
— No offence meant, Mor.
— And none taken.
— Then why are you so angry?
Mor laughed, a short, cold sound.
— I haven’t been angry in years.
He stalked away, and in silence they watched him go. Then Liza laughed nervously and said:
— Take no notice of him, David. He’s a bit drunk. You know.
David shrugged his shoulders and smiled at her.
— I must go home.
In the hall Liza helped him into his coat. He said lightly:
— Why don’t you come over to the house and visit me some day? The old bachelor life gets very dreary.
She glanced at him with a small sly smile.
— For what? she asked.
He pursed his lips and turned to the door. With is hand on the lock he said stiffly:
— I’m … I’m very fond of you, Liza.
She laughed, and looked down at her dress in confusion.
— Of me? O you’re not.
— I am, Liza.
— You shouldn’t say things like that. Good night, David.
But neither moved. They stood and gazed at each other, and Liza’s breath quickened. She moved swiftly to the door and pulled it open, and a blast of wind came in to disturb the hall. She stepped out on the porch with him. The oaks were lashing their branches together, and they had voices that cried and groaned. Black rain was falling, and in the light from the door the lawn was a dark, ugly sea. She opened her mouth to speak, closed it, then turned away from him and said:
— Call me.
She stood very still and looked out at the darkness, and the damp wind lifted her hair. David moved to touch her, and dropped his hand. He said:
— I’ll call you tomorrow.
— No. Not tomorrow.
— When?
— I must go, David.
With her head bent she turned and hurried back along the hall.
All the guests had left the drawing room, and Mor sat alone in a high, winged chair, a glass in his hand and a bottle beside him on a low table. His tie had at last come undone, and his eyes were faintly glazed. Liza went to the couch and straightened a cushion. From the floor she gathered up a cigarette end and an overturned glass. He watched her, his chin on his breast. He said thickly:
— What’s wrong with you?
— Nothing. Have they all gone?
— I suppose so.
She went to the tall window beside his chair and drew back the curtains. The wind pounded the side of the house, and between gusts the rain whispered softly on the glass. Down past the black, invisible fields, little lights were moving. She said:
— I wonder why he killed her.
— They say he wanted to marry her and she wouldn’t have him. I think she was maybe a man-eater. A tart. He killed her. Happens every day, these days.
There was silence but for the wind and rain beating, and the faint sighing of the trees. Mor said:
— I suppose David made his usual pass?
She moved her shoulders, and he grinned up at her, showing his teeth. She said:
— He asked if … he asked me to go with him. Tonight. He asked would I go with him.
— Did he, now? And why didn’t you?
She did not answer. He poured himself another drink.
— I know how David’s mind works, he said. He thinks I don’t deserve you. He’s wrong, though — God help me.
— You have a nasty mind.
— Yes. Though he must have been encouraged when I took the job. That sent me down a little farther.
He looked at her where she stood in the shadows watching the night. He frowned and asked:
— Do you despise me too?
— For taking the job? Why should I? Are you ashamed?
— No, no. Your father is very good to do so much for me. Yes, I’m ashamed.
— Why?
— Don’t act, Liza.
— It was your decision. If you had kept on writing I would have stood by you. We would have managed. Daddy could have —
She bit her lip, and Mor laughed.