The kitchen was in the thatched part of the house, a spacious room brought up to date with cheerful wallpaper. The old, wide hearth had been bricked in and a modern anthracite stove installed. Beside it was a pen in which lay a lamb, head erect, ears nervously pricked. A bright checked cloth covered the table in the middle of the room, beside which were set two newly painted white chairs.

Father Conroy pulled one of the chairs around to the fire and drew off his boots to warm his feet. Father O’Hara poured out the tea and brought it to him – it was very strong and sweet – with a thick cut of soda bread, so warm that the butter melted on it.

“A fine place,” said Father Conroy at last.

“’Tis. Snug.”

“No children?”

“There’s one on the way.” Father O’Hara shifted on his hams and said with satisfaction, “I married them myself.”

Good man! Father Conroy was tempted to say, but looking at Father O’Hara’s face shining benignly in the firelight, he merely shifted into a more comfortable position and murmured, “Ay, ’tis a snug place.”

“Oh, a fine place, surely.”

There was more Father Conroy wanted to say, but he did not know what. His empty limbs were filling up now with drowsy well-being. He felt too comfortable to move, and yet, there was some question hovering on his mind. He looked around the room, noticed a pair of slippers which had been scuffed off near the door to the room above. She must have small feet, he thought; they were fancy slippers for a farmhouse, with red roses on them, and they were fairly new, no doubt a wedding present. The room door was slightly ajar; yes, it was the bedroom, he could see the bedpost inside. Did they have a feather mattress? There were so few of those left in the country (a traveling salesman, a proper rogue, had collected them all, exchanged them for mattresses of fiber). But they’d probably have a feather bolster anyway, of the old sort. Yes, they’d lie there and leave the door ajar, so that they’d have the light from the fire.

Oh, here, what am I doing? Prying like that; God, I ought to be ashamed of myself. He looked uneasily toward the door, as if the couple were indeed in there, in the warm firelit dark. What was I going to say? Damn it, I was going to say something. He fetched up, to his surprise, a deep sigh.

“Lord, Tom, what’s that in aid of?”

Hastily Father Conroy said, “Imagine them going off to the pictures!”

“Oh, well now, why wouldn’t they? They’re a hard-working young couple, and they’re stuck here, day in, day out. Why shouldn’t they break out now and then?”

“You’d think...”

“What, Tom?”

“...they’d have everything here.”