“We’d bring peace, that’s what we’d bring. We’ve no quarrel with the French or the Poles or the Dutch. We’d even pull with the Russians. We’d have Europe eating out of our hands, man, if we were planted in the center of it.”

“I think, all the same, Father” – the fat, priest-handling councilor had joined the group and was breathing hard at Father Conroy’s shoulder – “I think you’d be sorry to leave our Kilbride.”

“I would not then. I’d know that new German homes were springing up all over the parish, healthy as mushrooms. Besides, they’d have left places like Dachau and Belsen behind them. I bet we could find plenty of fuel for those old gas ovens.”

They were silent, looking at the ground.

“Plenty of deadwood,” said Father Conroy, “like us.”

The County Manager coughed and extended his hand. “Well, Father, we must be off. It’s been very interesting.” And with some haste, bumping together in the doorway, they made their departure.

Yes, he had shifted them, all right, but when he looked around, the room seemed as full as ever of people who could be dispensed with. They were all facing toward the table at the far side of the room, where McEvilly was sitting, eating a snack. Over their heads, he got a glimpse of McEvilly’s knife raised to emphasize some word. Well, there was no point in staying. He had heard enough oul’ chat for one night.

On his way out, he was accosted by a stranger, a burly fellow of about forty-five, dressed in the houndstooth tweed jacket and cavalry-twill trousers of the gentleman farmer. He was sipping tea and surveying the company with a rather superior air.

“Well, what did you think, Father? What’s your honest opinion?”

“Of what?”

“Of the great man, Father? He was in fair form tonight, but I’ve seen him put on a better show.”

“Father McEvilly, you mean?”

“Ay, that’s what I’m saying. I’ve heard him now, oh, I suppose ten or twelve times. I drove sixty miles to hear him tonight. I follow him up, you might say. And d’you know what I’m going to tell you? I don’t honestly think he’s learning anything; I mean, when you take into account all the experience he’s had.”

“Learning what?” asked Father Conroy coldly.

“Well, now, Father.” He put another spoonful of sugar in his cup and stirred with relish. “I’m by way of being a speaker myself. You know what I mean – I won the Young Farmers’ cup for debate two years running, and I train our own team – I say all this without boasting, just to show that my opinion on the subject is worth something.” He sipped his tea, as if there were no more to be said until this information had been properly digested.