JAMES: I work on a newspaper.

CALLIFER: Oh, I was thinking—But I haven’t kept up. Were you at your poor father’s funeral?

JAMES: Yes, but I wasn’t invited.

CALLIFER: Nor was I, but you—(He looks at him sharply.)

JAMES: For the same reason. I’m James, Uncle, not John. A strange meeting, isn’t it?—the first since that potting shed.

At this moment Miss Connolly enters with a tray. She puts it on the table.

MISS CONNOLLY: Is there anything else you’ll be wanting?

CALLIFER: No. You can go to bed. I’ll show my nephew up. (She leaves.) So you are James.

JAMES: Yes.

CALLIFER: I wish you hadn’t come.

JAMES: Why?

CALLIFER: We were very close once. Do you remember?

JAMES: No.

CALLIFER: I’m glad. You won’t find me so changed then.

JAMES: I couldn’t help listening just now—you didn’t lower your voice.

CALLIFER: That’s honest, anyway. So we needn’t pretend. You’ll have some whisky? A reunion like this demands—(He doesn’t wait for an answer, but goes to his bookcase and draws out the first volume of the Catholic Encyclopedia and then the second. Behind it is a full bottle.) Volume 2, C. to F. I can’t offer you soda. She’d notice if I kept soda in the house. (He pours out two very large glasses and drinks deeply of his own.) Welcome to my home. Rather different from Wild Grove, isn’t it? But then your father and I followed different ways. They say you can tell a man’s character from his furnishings. (James looks around.) Yes, you can see mine standing all round you for yourself. What sort of rooms have you got, I wonder? They’ll have told you at Wild Grove that I’m over fond of this. (He raises his glass.) But I do my job. Nobody can deny I do my job. Look at the pictures, the books. I keep up appearances, don’t I? We are intelligent men, you and I. Look at that picture of the Sacred Heart. A Christmas card made out of a medical textbook. (He takes another long drink of whisky.) Does John drink?

JAMES: A glass of wine with his meals.

CALLIFER: A lucky man. How does it go? “They scoff at scars who never felt a wound”?

JAMES: What’s your wound, Uncle?

CALLIFER: My wound? Nothing serious. It’s a difficult thing, though, practising a faith, day in, day out, when you don’t believe one jot of it. Do you know that at night I still pray—to nothing, to that. (He indicates the crucifix with his glass.) I was teaching you to believe in that when your father interfered. How right he was.

JAMES: Right?