“Ah, ’twas different then, Father. I gave a few year in England at the building, and there was no time there – there was good money to be made. And even now, working on the roads, there’s no time; when I come home, I have to help to put the kids to bed and do their sums for them. They had more time in the old days, more room in their minds. My father, now, could tell you the history of all the big families around. He could tell you about the Conroys, even, and they’re two parishes distant from us.”

“The great Conroys!” said Father Conroy heavily.

“That’s right, Father. There was a time when a Conroy of Rosnagree could walk three mile down the bank of the Glendine river and he never to leave his own land.”

“Happy days!” said Father Conroy.

“Yes, Father,” Peter said, uncertain of Father Conroy’s mood, and he blundered on to fill the silence, “Did he ever tell you how it got its name, Rosnagree?”

“The grove of the horses. I know all about it.”

There was silence. Even the indefatigable Peter could see that the subject had been thoroughly dismissed. He said no more until Father Conroy rose to go. “Your uncle James passed us on the road.”

“Too bad he missed me.”

“Oh, he’ll be here again next week. There’s a meeting called of the party committee. We told him we wanted him here.”

“He’s not used to that kind of invitation.”

“We’re sick and tired of him, Father, and that’s the truth. We’re going to put him on the spot over the contract for the roads.”

“Here?”

“Here, in this very room.”

Father Conroy looked around the little room, with the turf fire in the grate, the red mantelpiece crowded with photographs and china dogs. Was this to be James’s Waterloo? It seemed an unlikely place for the old warrior’s career to end, in the comfortable glow of the Sacred Heart lamp.

Peter was looking at him, waiting for him to say something, a word of support. There was only one thing to say, give him the boot! Too long have you put up with him! And yet, thinking of that desperate knocking at his own front door, the words stuck in his throat.

“Father!” the woman called, gesturing into the bedroom. He hurried to the doorway. The old man was sleeping, his breast rising and falling gently, his face at ease.

“Put out that candle,” he told her. “He’ll be needing it again.”

“God bless you, Father, I know he will.”