‘I couldn’t be happier for you both. May you have many, many years of good life together. May God bless you in his goodness.’

Maria had arranged the wedding breakfast, as it was euphemistically termed, for seven o’clock that evening at Mr Gresham’s Royal Marine Hotel in Kingstown, eight miles out from the city, along the southern shore of Dublin Bay. And Lafeyre had arranged a fleet of six closed cabs to bring the wedding party and their guests to Westland Row, where they would take the six o’clock train for the journey to Kingstown. From there a further fleet of cabs would take them the short distance from the railway station to the hotel.

It was fully dark by the time they disembarked from the train at Kingstown, and there were flecks of snow in the freezing air coming off the sea. They were glad to reach the warmth of the hotel and the private reception room on the first floor, where sherry, port and, for those who wanted it, warming tea were to be served in the interval before the start of the meal.

The room buzzed with conversation as they sat to table. Wasn’t Maria beautiful beyond words? Didn’t Swallow look happier than anyone had seen him before? Weren’t the bridesmaids a delight? Father Lawrence’s ceremony and short homily had been so uplifting, had they not?

Maria had chosen her menu with care, and Mr Gresham’s hotel staff delivered superbly on their responsibilities to their guests. There was consommé de poulet, fortified with Madeira. Next came steamed cod with white sauce, garnished with Dublin Bay prawns. Then the chef presented his pièce de résistance, platters of grilled black Dover sole with a macédoine of fresh vegetables and creamed potatoes. After that came a sirloin of beef, carved in front of the diners according to their preference and served with fresh vegetables and brown roasted potatoes. Then there was strong blue cheese. Swallow did not particularly like it. The last course was a sponge pudding with fruit, soaked in brandy and covered with meringue and ice-cream, a specialty apparently of one of the hotel’s Parisian sous-chefs, who named his creation ‘diplomat pudding’.

‘You have done us a great deal of damage, Mrs Swallow,’ the Father Superior said, raising a half-emptied glass of sweet Hungarian Tokay wine after he had finished the sponge pudding. ‘To say that we poor friars are unaccustomed to this kind of fare is an understatement. This will take months of penance.’

‘Then I suggest you take the gains with the losses, Father,’ Maria laughed. ‘If you’re going to be doing the penance, enjoy the food and the wine.’