Got to cuddle yourself, he purred, in a parody of a sexy, adenoidal Dublin voice, caress yourself in a cocoon, wrap yourself in the lawther of what’s-its-name’s soap and you’ll last forever. Well, if not forever, long enough to disappoint the Donovans.

A will! So they wanted him to make a will! Leave everything to the cool, nest-feathering Jimmy; yes, that would suit their book! Well, there was nothing much to leave; they all knew that. He glanced toward the cupboard door, reached mentally into the darkness within. How much? He hadn’t looked in there for a long time. Maybe he should clear it all out and do a proper spring cleaning. Not just now, though! He’d give a day to it, sometime soon, when he was feeling in better form.

Briskly he turned from the window. What about a visit? he asked himself, like a host jollying along a shy guest. Whose turn was it? Who was the lucky man? Watch and Pray inevitably came to mind, but, thank God, he had done his duty there. Who was next?

Or rather, on whom could he call at this, the busiest hour of the day, between cow time and suppertime? Surely there was someone with whom there was business to be done? To his relief, he remembered that Drewitt had not yet been informed of the result of the draw. Well, there was an important piece of business that should have been seen to, had he a curate who showed any interest in the upkeep of the church and its buildings. He would have to see to it himself, then, without further delay. Gratefully he hurried out to the car and sat on the seat that was still warm.

*

Mrs. Drewitt stood at the back of the hall when the maid opened the door – he could see her shadow, thin, lonely, eager to be ecumenical with anybody. He leaned past the grinning Teresa McGrath (the seller of the winning ticket) and called out, “Ah, Mrs. Drewitt, how are ye?”

She emerged, showing all too obviously she had been flushed out. Gallantly, he lifted his hat, inclining his head as he did so; it was an old-fashioned gesture which always commended him to ladies of high degree. His pause of anticipation after they exchanged greetings left her no alternative but to ask him in.

“Yes, Padre? What is it?” Drewitt demanded. He had come out into the hall in jodhpurs and carpet slippers; he held an Agatha Christie in his hand as proof that he had been disturbed. Behind him, Father Conroy caught a glimpse of polished oak and deep-piled red carpet; above the flushed bald head, portraits of families more ancient than the Drewitts glowered down; they looked as if they knew they would end up with a scion like this, who had bought them with the furnishings.