The light and noise of the bar held him at the doorways for a few moments. He looked about him, but his sight was confused by the shining of many red and green wineglasses. The bar seemed to him to be full of people and he felt that the people were observing him curiously. He glanced quickly to right and left (frowning slightly to make his errand appear serious), but when his sight cleared a little he saw that nobody had turned to look at him: and there, sure enough, was Ignatius Gallaher leaning with his back against the counter and his feet planted far apart.

“Hallo, Tommy, old hero, here you are! What is it to be? What will you have? I’m taking whisky: better stuff than we get across the water. Soda? Lithia? No mineral? I’m the same. Spoils the flavour.⁠ ⁠… Here, garçon , bring us two halves of malt whisky, like a good fellow.⁠ ⁠… Well, and how have you been pulling along since I saw you last? Dear God, how old we’re getting! Do you see any signs of aging in me⁠—eh, what? A little grey and thin on the top⁠—what?”