The kitchen was tidier than usual. She ushered him through it, toward the parlor, a place to which he was not usually impelled – it reminded him, with the white sheets spread over the piano and the sofa, of the catechism picture of Limbo, “a place or state of rest, where the souls of the saints who died before Christ were detained.”

He slipped aside as she pushed the door open. “No, no, Kate, I’ll do here. Leave the room above for the visitors. I’ll sit here by the fire and have a smoke.” And he took a stool and sat down firmly by the kitchen fire.

To his irritation, Mikie lowered himself to the bench opposite and sat with hands on knees watching him, waiting upon his command. When he felt in his pocket, Mikie reached forward at once with a plug of tobacco and a penknife. “No, thanks, Mikie, I’ve forgotten the oul’ pipe.”

When Mikie rose to go to the dresser, he added quickly, “No, I’m off it, Mikie, I’m off it altogether.” Usually he accepted other men’s pipes as a matter of course (he was as unconscious as a child of some privacies), but there was something about the shape of Mikie’s mouth which put him off. Yet, he felt ashamed of his refusal, as if he had said something snobbish.

In silence, both of them watched Kate lay a cake in the pot oven and heap burning sods of turf on the lid. She had an oil stove, which she rarely used, possibly because she was a good cook, but more likely because she never had enough paraffin. Father Conroy watched her movements jealously; these preparations were usually for him, and it seemed to him now that she was put out by his visit.

“You’re very busy, Kate,” he complained.

“You haven’t been to see us for a long time,” she said, as if she were counting how many months. Now, what did she mean by that? Was she saying, “It’s a pity you had to come just now!”? If only Mikie would go out, he could talk to her. But what about? What had they ever talked about? God, he thought, with a feeling of urgency, have we never talked to each other at all?

“How’s the family, Kate?”

“The family?” She looked up, startled.

“Our family,” he said sharply. “In Rosnagree.”

She was silent, busy raking the fire under the pot. Mikie was lighting his pipe, all his attention on the job. Only the match wavered uneasily over the bowl.

“I was over there last Sunday,” she murmured. “Frank was out, of course, but...” She hesitated, trying out “my mother,” “your mother,” and finally coming out with the common name from their childhood, “Momma was there.”