“Start what again?” said the Welshman. “Have you personally seen them?”

“I have, I’m no exception.”

“Can you say who they might be?”

“Visit the neighborhood for yourself and there’ll be those who can acquaint you with the gory details. Myself I’m acquainted with only the general idea of their character and disposition, formed after putting two and two together. Have you never seen a ghost, then?”

The Welshman gave a look as if he’d been unfairly struck, as if a question coming at him now in here was carrying things too far. But he only said, “Heard them.”

“Ah, do keep it to yourself then, for the duration of the journey, and not go bragging, will you?” the young wife cried at him. “Irish ghosts are enough for some of us for the one night without mixing them up with the Welsh and them shrieking things, and just before all of us are going on the water except yourself.”

“You don’t mind the Lord and Lady Beagle now, do you? They shouldn’t frighten you, they’re lovely and married. Married still. Why, their names just come to me, did you hear that? Lord and Lady Beagle—like they sent in a card. Ha! Ha!” Again the man from Connemara tried to bring that singing laugh out of the frightened sweetheart, from whom he had not yet taken his glances away.

“Don’t,” the young wife begged him, forcing her eyes to his salver-like palm. “Those are wild, crazy names for ghosts.”

“Well, what kind of ghosts do you think they ever are!” Their glances met through their laughter and remorse. She tossed her head.

“There ain’t no ghosts,” said Victor.

“Now suck this good orange,” she whispered to him, as if he were being jealous.

“Here comes the bride,” announced the Welshman.

“Oh my God.” But what business was she of the Welshman’s?

In came the lady in the raincoat beaming from her dinner, but he talked right around her hip. “Do you have to confess?” he said. “Regularly? Suppose you make a confession—swear words, lewd thoughts, or the like: then does the priest make you pay a fine?”

“Confession’s free, why not?” remarked the lady, stepping over all their feet.

“You’re a Catholic, too?” he said, as she hung above his knee.

And as they all closed their eyes she fell into his lap, right down on top of him. Even the dogs, now rushing along in the other direction, hung on the air a moment, their tongues out. Then one dog was inside with them. This greyhound flung herself forward, back, down to the floor, her tail slapped out like a dragon’s. Her eyes gazed toward the confusion, and little bubbles of boredom and suspicion played under the skin of her jowls, puff, puff, puff, while wrinkles of various memories and agitations came and went on her forehead like little forks of lightning.