ith a broad ease to Blackrock and Kingstown and the
sea. On the right hand Suffolk Street, reserved and shy, twists up to
St. Andrew's Church, touches gingerly the South City Markets, droops
to George's Street, and is lost in mean and dingy intersections. At
the back of the crossing Grafton Street continues again for a little
distance down to Trinity College (at the gates whereof very
intelligent young men flaunt very tattered gowns and smoke massive
pipes with great skill for their years), skirting the Bank of Ireland,
and on to the River Liffey and the street which local patriotism
defiantly speaks of as O'Connell Street, and alien patriotism, with
equal defiance and pertinacity, knows as Sackville Street.

To the point where these places meet, and where the policeman stands,
all the traffic of Dublin converges in a constant stream. The trams
hurrying to Terenure, or Donnybrook, or Dalkey flash around this
corner; the doctors who, in these degenerate days, concentrate in
Merrion Square, fly up here in carriages and motor cars, the vans of
the great firms in Grafton and O'Connell streets, or those outlying,
never cease their exuberant progress. The ladies and gentlemen of
leisure stroll here daily at four o'clock, and from all sides the
vehicles and pedestrians, the bicycles and motor bicycles, the trams
and the outside cars rush to the solitary policeman, who directs them
all with his severe but tolerant eye. He knows all the tram-drivers
who go by, and his nicely graduated wink rewards the glances of the
rubicund, jolly drivers of the hackneys and the decayed Jehus with
purple faces and dismal hopefulness who drive sepulchral cabs for some
reason which has no acquaintance with profit; nor are the ladies and
gentlemen who saunter past foreign to his encyclopedic eye. Constantly
his great head swings a slow recognition, constantly his serene finger
motions onwards a well-known undesirable, and his big, white teeth
flash for an instant at young, laughing girls and the more matronly
acquaintances who solicit the distinction of his glance.

To this place, and about this hour, Mary Makebelieve, returning from
her solitary lunch, was wont to come. The figure of the massive
policeman fascinated her. Surely everything desirable in manhood was
concentrated in his tremendous body. What an immense, shattering blow
that mighty fist could give! She could imagine it swinging vast as the
buffet of a hero, high-thrown and then down