“It’s a matter of habit,” he explained, then becoming distant, he took himself to his room.

For such a small man his snores that night carried throughout the house. But unlike his predecessor, he did not spend an age in the outdoor toilet reading from the squares of torn newspapers and inserting bizarre political comments in the margins of books, nor did he distress the girls by betraying the male weakness for innuendo and domination. His shyness was a bonus all round. He was a man, they all agreed, frightened of familiarity. Yet, especially for Mr Adams, a man whose words were both reassuring and intelligent.

And like all men who think in two languages, he was given to the odd discourse on this condition.

A language is for thinking in, O’Muichin had explained over supper. He grew verbose and animated. The original images are sometimes in Irish, he said, and the English occurs only by way of explanation. Sometimes, with concepts, the opposite is true. The new language is merely the learning of an old and well-tried discipline, he said, for which our senses – tired of the language we usually express ourselves in – cry out. A language will return to its source, even in a stranger’s head. The great joy is selecting from various languages what best expresses the content of the mind. “I’m lost,” said Catherine. Immediately the new teacher entertained the vapours, as if someone had just tightened his bodice, and a nervous ennui ensued. This malodorous silence continued until Sara said something to Catherine, then struck by an obscure thought, O’Muichin shot a notebook out of his pocket and scribbled some comment down. He looked up, found where he was and resumed his vacant air.

“We consider shapes, we do,” he said out of the blue, “not colours. And another thing, you can’t say ‘I love you’ in Irish. Don’t let them tell you otherwise. In Irish the love is on you. It’s not yours to command. Yes,” he added thought-fully.

O’Muichin hailed from the inner city, he was a working-class Gaelgoir, and he was glad to be away from Dublin for a time. The wages he earned as a schoolteacher he spent publishing his own books. “Yeats did it, so why shouldn’t I?” he explained. Fantasies was his first publication.

“Fantasies?” asked the Sergeant.

“Yes, and I’m presently preparing Part II.”

“These, I take it, are not of a ribald nature.”

“The Fianna tales, Mr Adams. The Táin. I use these as my stepping off point.”

“You might point out your sources to me,” said the Sergeant, in scholarly vein, “if you have the time.”

“Delighted,” replied O’Muichin.