The mindless stream of questions continued at the wedding breakfast. Seated glumly beside the bride, Father Conroy could hear Frank, on her other side, quiz the Burke ladies about the history of their hotel. The old waiter delayed more and more often to join in until at last his arm was laid familiarly along the back of Frank’s chair. Name of God, what gem of knowledge did Frank always expect to come up with? There was no doubt that they were a respectable family, the Burkes. Their hotel was a respectable house, patronized by the older type of commercial traveler. There wasn’t much else to say about it, except that it gave a right good spread, not like the flashier hotels uptown, which often gave several wedding breakfasts the same morning – champagne uneasily buoying hotted-up broiler chicken, ice cream, and tinned fruit. The Burkes, at least, knew how to cater for people from the country.

Damn it, though, there was no need to trace their history back, as if they were royalty. That only implied how much the Conroys had to gain by the match.

For, of course, the object of both families at the reception was to show how little each had to gain from the alliance. On both sides were people of substance, Castlemore business people with useful political pull on the Burke side, strong farmers on the Donovan (or rather, the Conroy side – for Uncle James sat like a reigning chief beside the bridegroom). To balance Father Conroy, the Burkes had brought along Canon Fitzmaurice, a very distant relative indeed, but of indubitably traceable connection. His senior position in the diocese was nicely calculated to offset Father Conroy’s closer relationship with the groom. And, by virtue of that seniority, he it was who would open the speechmaking and, of course, stress the advantage of marrying into the Burkes.

How like Frank, though, to be quite innocent of these matters! Not innocent so much as insensible! It did not matter two hoots to him what happened to the Conroys – signs on, he had never married, though, God knows, any girl should have been glad to walk into a fine place like Rosnagree. She would have had to cope with his mother, of course, but still, if he was a man at all, he should have faced up to that problem. No, he had let himself be imprisoned in Rosnagree, with the smell of those geraniums.

It had seeped into the food, the smell; Father Conroy could taste it more strongly with each mouthful. It flowed into his saliva, soured his tongue and the back of his throat. He chewed but could not bring himself to swallow. Some of the people around him were already finished the course. Christ, how was he going to get through the heap on the plate before him?