This visit was a qualified success, since Mrs Bannister made heavy weather of the blacksmith’s brogue, and the blacksmith could not make head or tail of an American accent (“She talked like a damned buzz saw,” he told inquirers later); but there was a good deal of dumb-show cordiality throughout, and the pound note which changed hands at the end was an effective sweetener … It was a charm which worked on other occasions, too: when, for instance, she came down to the bar of the Cloncraig Arms and stood two rounds of pints and double whiskies, there were many ready to swear that America must be a hell of a fine place, and its womenfolk its best ambassadors.

The wives of Cloncraig, generally, did not like her: she was far too disturbing, far too much of a woman, and the majority of them were fully conscious that their own feminine lures had long since languished of familiarity. The men, of course, looked sideways at her, and kept on looking: she was undoubtedly a grand figure of a woman, and the gossip about the transparent nightdress, and other items of her wardrobe duly reported by the hotel servants, had lost nothing in the telling. In this respect, she had made a friend for life of Paddy Finane, simply by strolling down to the river’s edge with him one evening when dusk was coming on; the excursion had, of course, been totally innocent, but many knowing eyes had followed them, and Paddy was not the man to tell his story in concise words when a wink and a leer would serve far better.

With old Neil Fairlie, too, she scored a notable hit when she recalled her father to him.

“He often used to talk about you,” she said, stretching a point for politeness’ sake. “I remember your name very well.”

“Is that so?” said Neil, flattered. “He was a good friend of mine in the old days. I expect,” he went on, glancing delicately at the Cadillac, “he did well for himself in America?”

“He had a good business,” agreed Mrs Bannister. “Building houses and shops and factories.”

“And will you be going back there soon?”

“Before very long.” She smiled. “It’s been nice here, but holidays can’t last for ever.”

“It’s been very nice having you, ma’am,” said old Neil gallantly. “We’ll remember the visit, here in Cloncraig.”

She was in the village for a full week before she met Father Haggerty.

Father Haggerty, of course, had heard of her, as he heard of everyone and everything in Cloncraig, one way and another; but their paths had not crossed, and village gossip about the rich woman from America had not encouraged him to seek her acquaintance. He was a priest, and an old man: she, it seemed, was a woman full of vanities who had left her religion long since … But they met presently, one morning outside the village store, and exchanged courtesies: he found her pleasant-spoken, and oddly respectful – as backsliding Catholics often were when they encountered a priest. They met again, by arrangement, and talked for an hour; something was stirring in his old forgetful mind, something that concerned the people in his care, something to do with such women as this, who had the gift of charity and the power of riches … Even as he talked to her, God seemed to be chiding him with some reclaimable error of omission.