All the time as he read, his mind was on what had happened, not on the wet dream itself (for he had often had to reassure anxious young men in confession about such things), but on the circumstances which had brought it on – the empty house, those lights switched on one by one, the treacherous darkness which had overwhelmed him. What was the meaning of it? Or had it any meaning? Was it sent to fill him with guilt and terror? Then surely it must have had a meaning, a purpose apparent to, yes, to the malicious power that sent it. He must have done something wrong, to lay himself so open to it. But what? Christ, what have I done?

With his Office said, there was nothing to occupy him in the kitchen. He went into the study and moved around, trying to tidy the papers on his desk, making bundles of them, only to find that there was no place to put them but on the mantelpiece or in the armchair. The curtains were not drawn; the room lay open to the darkness. He should go back to bed; all this tidying needed a clear head, and it would he better to leave it till the morning. Anyway, what was the purpose of it?

He stopped tidying, but he could not leave the room; he was held there. He looked around him. What was he meant to do? Then he noticed that he had left the cupboard door ajar. His money was in there; he did not know how much. Not very much – how much, he just did not want to know. And yet, someday he should take it out and count it. He stared at the door, half-open on the darkness within. Yes, someday he would have to take it out. But not now, not just now. Come on, he told himself, leave it, get off to bed with yourself. You’re in no state to count it now.

He turned away, still reluctant to leave the room. On the pile of papers on the desk was something familiar, ah, yes, the letter from Uncle Joseph in South America. He picked it up, glanced quickly down it, and as he did so, felt the familiar ring of the phrases. He had been young when he read it – just before his ordination – yet he must have taken it in well, perhaps been struck with compassion for the old man thinking of St. Brigid’s Day in Ireland, the first day of spring.