“I mean” – the cunning little eyes searched Father Conroy’s face for some way of softening the words, while still giving offense – “he wasn’t grubbing after things like the rest of us. He thought he was above that.”

“He was above it,” Father Conroy burst out. “He was the only one of us who knew how to live.”

“Oh, of course. That’s what I’m saying.” And he went on, as if aggrieved at being misunderstood, “Sure, wasn’t he my own brother? And he certainly looked after Rosnagree well.”

“Better than it was ever looked after, before or since. Are you going to come in?”

As they climbed the steps – the old man eagerly shuffling ahead – the phrase came buzzing in on a new orbit – And Lancelot at the ring rides well. Lancelot, my father.

Chapter 7

James seemed ill at ease. He had been set in the big armchair, hatless, like an egg in its cup, waiting to be topped. Prowling around him, Father Conroy turned suddenly to catch him out, then passed on, baffled by the anxious, shortsighted stare with which his uncle looked through him. What did the old fellow really want? The will – was he still snooping after it? Still trying to feather Jimmy’s nest?

It took Father Conroy a while to realize that James was peering at the testimonial on the far wall, trying to read the curlicued inscription from the St. John Bosco Youth Club, Victoria: “To our dear Friend, Father Tom Conroy, we present this Address, as a Token of our Appreciation and Regard, on the Occasion of his Return to his beloved Ireland. Sensible of the Loss, etc.”

“That?” Father Conroy waved toward it. “Just a lot of oul’ plamás from some young people I knew one time.”

“Oh?” James still peered anxiously.

“It proves that I was appreciated, anyway, if only in England.”

“Oh, England?” James sat back, relaxed. What England thought didn’t matter; local praise was the only kind he was jealous of. “That was a long time ago, Father.”

“Some of it still holds good, maybe.”

James said nothing. He had never been known to try his hand at a compliment; his talent lay in cutting people down to size. “I was just going to tell you about Jimmy,” he began.

“Oh, yes, so Jimmy’s getting hitched!”

Only the swift darting of the eyes betrayed James’s surprise.

They seemed to dart around to cover the back of his head, and finding their way blocked, to return to flash a warning, an intimation that there might be someone behind him, a nonparty man, a non-Conroy, some kind of interloper. Let’s keep talking, the eyes said, just keep talking. “What d’you think of it yourself, Father?” he whispered.

“Oh, well” – Father Conroy took a chance on the fact that whatever Jimmy did, he would fall on his feet – “I’m pleased, naturally.”