there, Val Dillon it was, and Sir Charles Cameron and Dan Dawson spoke and there was music. Bartell D’Arcy sang and Benjamin Dollard …
―I know, M’Coy broke in. My missus sang there once.
―Did she? Lenehan said.
A card Unfurnished Apartments reappeared on the windowsash of number 7 Eccles street.
He checked his tale a moment but broke out in a wheezy laugh.
―But wait till I tell you, he said, Delahunt of Camden street had the catering and yours truly was chief bottlewasher. Bloom and the wife were there. Lashings of stuff we put up: port wine and sherry and curacoa to which we did ample justice. Fast and furious it was. After liquids came solids. Cold joints galore and mince pies …
―I know, M’Coy said. The year the missus was there …
Lenehan linked his arm warmly.
―But wait till I tell you, he said. We had a midnight lunch too after all the jollification and when we sallied forth it was blue o’clock the morning after the night before. Coming home it was a gorgeous winter’s night on the Featherbed Mountain. Bloom and Chris Callinan were on one side of the car and I was with the wife on the other. We started singing glees and duets: Lo, the early beam of morning. She was well primed with a