He had been disappointed when John joined the priesthood, but, to tell the truth, at the same time he had been relieved. John was a poor example of a fellow, weak and timid and with no aptitude for anything and no inclination toward anything, and Hubert had never been able to imagine what he would do or could do with himself in the way of earning a living and making a life for himself. For a fellow like that, becoming a priest was as good an answer as any. He would be taken care of, and he would always be told what to do and what not to do. He would be safe all his life. In time, as he grew older, he would probably get to walking and talking with as much authority as any of them, in his black clothes. What had happened to John, his fate, could all be laid at Rose’s door. She had ruined the boy. She had kept him all to herself all his life, and she had ended up by ruining him. It was a pity about John. Hubert did not like to think about John. There was something very meager and lost about him the last time he had come to see them, with his stiff new manners and his collar back to front and his carefulness about himself and about everything he said. Very uneasy John was that day, as if he was trying to set a good example to himself, watching himself and then looking at his parents as if he was hoping they would tell him that everything was all right.

The morning that had begun badly for Hubert went on badly. The two boiled eggs that Rose had left ready for him, and that he had decided to swallow at the last minute, after having decided earlier to punish her by leaving them where they were, sat coldly on his stomach. He wanted nothing to eat when midday came, and he decided to take a stroll and maybe have a glass of milk or something.

It was a cool day with bright sun, but there had been showers in the morning, and Hubert wore his raincoat when he left the shop.

He was an unremarkable, decent-looking man, not very tall. His face was pale and thin and he had blue eyes. He wore the expression of a friend, but of a friend who is making no promises. He walked as he worked, methodically, and made his way slowly along the narrow, crowded length of Grafton Street, sidestepping the prams and watching where he was going, not glancing in any of the shop windows. Grafton Street was bedlam, he thought, and he was glad when he emerged into the wider and freer and quieter spaces of Stephen’s Green. One of the high park gates, open, faced him diagonally across the green from the corner where he was standing.