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.

Was it another deal? Was she another Kate being brought to market? By God, he muttered as he slammed in the gear, haven’t we bought and sold enough human flesh in our time?

Chapter 4

He drove home fast; he had the feeling – a nervy feeling which nagged at him whenever he went beyond the bounds of his parish – that someone had been looking for him.

Sure enough, the primus had been turned off and the burned-out kettle put in the sink. On the table he found a message from his curate, Father Farrell; it was a request to attend a requiem High Mass next morning in Slievenalua for the soul of Maurice Connolly. He crumpled the note and tossed it into the grate. Maurice Connolly! Poor fellow, there couldn’t be much left after him, hardly enough to pay the undertaker, never mind the cost of High Mass.

The kitchen was still full of the bluish fumes of burned aluminum. He took the kettle and the extinct primus and shoved them outside the back door. There was nothing left to hold him in the kitchen, nor, when he had traversed it several times, his study. He stood at the window, staring out at the misty light on the hedgerow and the fields beyond. He was hemmed in with greenery. The rhododendrons were coming on again; he would have to trim them, trim them away to hell this time. And with them, that bloody lilac – it brought nothing but flies in the summertime. Now, there was something he could be doing! But when he shifted his leg, he thought, no, I won’t give them the satisfaction. I’ll wait till I’m in good form; let them come on a bit more, and then I’ll really do for them.