Even the stones of the yard were green. There were no fowl, no animals, no trespassers of any kind. The grass bore the fresh marks of tires; Frank, no doubt, was on the wing. Ah, well, that wouldn’t make things any easier. For he was suddenly afraid of opening the gate under the briers, of going up the overgrown path to the front door. And when he did so, it seemed to take him a long time, as if the house were moving back before him.

The door stood half-open. He heard a woman’s voice within, humming a pop song that was being flogged on the sponsored programs. He pushed open the door and entered the gloom of the hallway. The smell of geraniums came at him, like something in a nightmare which he expected but hoped not to meet. He stopped, thinking he could still retreat if he wanted to. Then the kitchen door opened and a young girl came out. She stopped humming at sight of him. Her mouth fell open. It was moist, red, enlarged with lipstick. She was very young, not more than twelve, wearing a dress which she seemed about to burst out of. She brought a big red hand to her mouth.

“Oh, Lord, Father, you gave us a fright.” A cheeky slut, by her eyes, the way she invited a smile at her distress. “Frank’s gone to the races in Mallow.”

Frank, she called him! Who the hell was she? Good God, could she be a McGarr, another generation of them abreeding in the cottage by the front gate?

“Where’s Mrs. Conroy?” he demanded. He wasn’t going to discuss Frank and his whereabouts with a one the like of her.

“She’s above in her room, Father. I was just going up to see would she be wanting any breakfast.”

“Any breakfast? Hasn’t she had it yet?”

“She won’t take it when I bring it. She has to be in the mood.”

“I see,” he said, staring at her keenly, “So she’s very troublesome, then?”

“Ara, no, Father, she’s no trouble. Sure, ye’d blow her off the back of yer hand. There’s not a pick on her, the poor oul’ thing.”

Thing, yourself! he thought, furious that a McGarr should be able to talk like that, so brazenly. Damn Frank, anyway, for his lack of pride.

The stairs was clean, though, and the bed so white that the old woman looked lost in the expanse of it. She didn’t see him at first. She was gazing toward the window that was open to the sunny air. There seemed very little of her beneath the clothes; most of her was head, and most of the head was eyes – the same sharp, close-set eyes which met his in mirrors. He had never thought till now that perhaps he resembled her.