“This car will see me out.”

James’s hat rose a little higher on his head, as it did at any intimation of mortality, particularly one referring to a constituent. He leaned forward and whispered, “My God, Thomas, are ye all right?”

“Of course I am. Why the hell shouldn’t I be?”

“You’re not your old self, at all, at all. You need a tonic or something.” He still held tight to the window. “I’m feeling in great form myself these days. D’ye know why, Thomas?”

Father Conroy revved the engine, but at last had to ask: “Why?”

“Because I made my will. Yes.” He stretched his arms out slowly, as if he were going to fly, then yawned luxuriously. “The best tonic you ever had. It’s like a load off your shoulders; you wouldn’t believe it. Of course, I’ll be bad news with some people. I left nothing to the church, bar a few quid for Masses. It’s my private opinion it has enough stacked away already, in spite of appearances.”

Father Conroy shrugged carelessly, refusing to be risen.

“No, mine is all going into further production. It’s going to the youth! And thank God” – he lifted his arms, pointing to the cowshed and the sound of milk pouring into a churn – “the Conroys have the youth to leave it to. D’ye know, Thomas,” he murmured persuasively, reaching for the window, “anyone should make a will.”

But Father Conroy had seen his chance. Before James could regain possession of the window, he released the clutch, and the car leaped forward and made its getaway as if it knew, faithful old doggy, that the bads were about, sixguns cocked, black hats rising out of ambush. All the way back through the fields it held to the shortest path and even gallantly took to the grass where the path could be shortened still further.

As it turned out onto the main road, a Morris Minor turned in. Both cars stopped, and after a moment the Morris gave way, reversing slowly to let the priest’s car out, at the same time giving Father Conroy a good eyeful of the expected guests. He did not recognize the couple who sat sedately in front. He did not really see them, although the man saluted, for he was staring at the girl in the back of the car. She sat on the edge of her seat and leaned forward, peering straight ahead between the two gray heads. She did not glance toward him as he passed out; if she saw him at all, it was as something which had unaccountably obstructed her view for a moment.

What caught his attention was not her face – that seemed ordinary enough, even plain, so far as it could be seen in the interior of the car. It was her attitude, the eager, single-minded way she leaned forward, leaning so willingly toward that house, that loveless collection of Conroys.