[...]

  Little Chandler’s thoughts ever since lunch-time had been of his meeting with Gallaher, of Gallaher’s invitation, and of the great city London where Gallaher lived. [...]   He turned to the right towards Capel Street. Ignatius Gallaher on the London Press! Who would have thought it possible eight years before? Still, now that he reviewed the past, Little Chandler could remember many signs of future greatness in his friend. People used to say that Ignatius Gallaher was wild. Of course, he did mix with a rakish set of fellows at that time; drank freely and borrowed money on all sides. In the end he had got mixed up in some shady affair, some money transaction: at least, that was one version of his flight. But nobody denied him talent. There was always a certain ... something in Ignatius Gallaher that impressed you in spite of yourself. Even when he was out at elbows and at his wits’ end for money he kept up a bold face.

[...]

  Every step brought [Little Chandler] nearer to London, farther from his own sober inartistic life. A light began to tremble on the horizon of his mind. He was not so old - thirty-two. His temperament might be said to be just at the point of maturity. There were so many different moods and impressions that he wished to express in verse. He felt them within him. He tried to weigh his soul to see if it was a poet’s soul. Melancholy was the dominant note of his temperament, he thought, but it was a melancholy tempered by recurrences of faith and resignation and simple joy. If he could give expression to it in a book of poems perhaps men would listen. He would never be popular: he saw that. He could not sway the crowd, but he might appeal to a little circle of kindred minds. The English critics, perhaps, would recognise him as one of the Celtic school by reason of the melancholy tone of his poems; besides that, he would put in allusions. He began to invent sentences and phrases from the notice which his book would get. Mr Chandler has the gift of easy and graceful verse ... . A wistful sadness pervades these poems ... The Celtic note. It was a pity his name was not more Irish-looking. Perhaps it would be better to insert his mother’s name before the surname: Thomas Malone Chandler; or better still: T. Malone Chandler. He would speak to Gallaher about it.
  He pursued his reverie so ardently that he passed his street and had to turn back.

[...]

  —Beautiful? said Ignatius Gallaher, pausing on the word and on the flavour of his drink. It’s not so beautiful, you know. Of course it is beautiful ... But it’s the life of Paris; that’s the thing. Ah, there’s no city like Paris for gaiety, movement, excitement ...
  Little Chandler finished his whisky and, after some trouble, succeeded in catching the barman’s eye. He ordered the same again.
  —I’ve been to the Moulin Rouge, Ignatius Gallaher continued when the barman had removed their glasses, and I’ve been to all the Bohemian cafés. Hot stuff! Not for a pious chap like you, Tommy.

[...; Little Chandler returns home.]

  Little Chandler sat in the room off the hall, holding a child in his arms. [...] He caught himself up at the question and glanced nervously round the room. He found something mean in the pretty furniture which he had bought for his house on the hire system. Annie had chosen it herself and it reminded him of her. It too was prim and pretty. A dull resentment against his life awoke within him. Could he not escape from his little house? Was it too late for him to try to live bravely like Gallaher? Could he go to London? There was the furniture still to be paid for. If he could only write a book and get it published, that might open the way for him.

[...]

  The child awoke and began to cry. He turned from the page and tried to hush it: but it would not be hushed. He began to rock it to and fro in his arms, but its wailing cry grew keener. He rocked it faster while his eyes began to read the second stanza [of Byron’s poem]:

Within this narrow cell reclines her clay,
  That clay where once ...

  It was useless. He couldn’t read. He couldn’t do anything. The wailing of the child pierced the drum of his ear. It was useless, useless! He was a prisoner for life. His arms trembled with anger and suddenly bending to the child’s face he shouted:
  —Stop!

[...; his wife returns to find the child in tears.]

  —What have you done to him? she cried, glaring into his face.
  Little Chandler sustained for one moment the gaze of her eyes and his heart closed together as he met the hatred in them. He began to stammer:
  —It’s nothing ... He ... he ... began to cry ... I couldn’t ... I didn’t do anything ... What?
  Giving no heed to him she began to walk up and down the room, clasping the child tightly in her arms and murmuring:
  —My little man! My little mannie! Was ’ou frightened, love? ... There now, love! There now! ... Lambabaun! Mamma’s little lamb of the world! ... There now!
  Little Chandler felt his cheeks suffused with shame and he stood back out of the lamplight. He listened while the paroxysm of the child’s sobbing grew less and less; and tears of remorse started to his eyes.