tapped it at each sauntering step against his trouserleg. Careless air:
just drop in to see. Per second per second. Per second for every second
it means. From the curbstone he darted a keen glance through the door of
the postoffice. Too late box. Post here. No-one. In.

He handed the card through the brass grill.

--Are there any letters for me? he asked.

While the postmistress searched a pigeonhole he gazed at the recruiting
poster with soldiers of all arms on parade: and held the tip of his baton
against his nostrils, smelling freshprinted rag paper. No answer
probably. Went too far last time.

The postmistress handed him back through the grill his card with a
letter. He thanked her and glanced rapidly at the typed envelope.


Henry Flower Esq,
c/o P. O. Westland Row,
City.


Answered anyhow. He slipped card and letter into his sidepocket,
reviewing again the soldiers on parade. Where's old Tweedy's regiment?
Castoff soldier. There: bearskin cap and hackle plume. No, he's a
grenadier. Pointed cuffs. There he is: royal Dublin fusiliers. Redcoats.
Too showy. That must be why the women go after them. Uniform. Easier to
enlist and drill. Maud Gonne's letter about taking them off O'Connell
street at night: disgrace to our Irish capital. Griffith's paper is on