It was almost dawn when--as if in a vision that stood before him in unwavering light--he saw the face of Senator Bassett and remembered the curse that unfortunate man had laid upon the family and person of Joseph Armagh, and remembered his own dream. It was ridiculous, even to remember. It was, this superstition, fit only for old wives in chimney corners, cackling of banshees and the little people and omens and visitations, and moldv curses. But Joseph sat by his daughter and he thought of Senator Bassett whom he had murdered as surely as any assassin. Chapter There was not a night that Elizabeth Hennessey did not sit upstairs at her bedroom window and watch the Armagh house. It was January now, and the lawns and the trees were filled up with snow and there was a wide desolation on the sky near sunset, when a lavender shadow ran over the whiteness of the earth and the steepled spruces and the pines stood black against a coldly sparkling orange west. Not even at Christmas had lights been lit in that house, except for the upper servants' quarters, and no movement could be seen at black windows, and no coming or going. No sleigh bells scattered thin music in the silence, chimneys smoked but desultorily; the roofs were marble under the moon. The New Year came and went, and there were no yellow opened doors, no laughter, no guests, no ball as usual. For Joseph and Bernadette had taken their daughter, Ann Marie, to Europe the last of September for a hopeless round of celebrated neurologists in Geneva, Paris, Rome and London, and brain specialists. Kevin and Rory were at their university, and did not come home for the holidays. Courtney had accompanied Joseph and Bernadette during their desperate hegira until Bernadette had more than made it plain that he was unwanted and unwelcome. He was now in Amalfi and gave his mother no indication of when he would return. Elizabeth guessed that he knew of her liaison with Joseph Armagh, and that in some way, in his grief-stricken misery and confusion, he blamed her for his birth, Ann Marie's condition, and the final humiliation of her affair. Some day, she knew, when his grief was less, he would see more clearly. In the meantime she had to be satisfied with his brief cold notes to which she replied with maternal warmth and love. It was Rory who kept her informed of the family, from letters from his mother, Joseph's letters to her were abrupt with sorrow and despair, and. she knew she must not reply to them. Ann Marie could walk now, feed herself, help a nurse to dress and bathe her, but beyond that she had been reduced to the intelligence of a child of less than three, and had no memory of her past life, no memory of Elizabeth and Courtney Hennessey, and did not remember her brothers from visit to visit. She had lost the years of her education and her experience. The only clue that sometimes heartened the family was an awful and unremitting fear of horses and terror of even a small copse of trees. But as the months passed these fears began to abate so that the parents were able to take her, without a blindfold, into a carriage. So, the last hope was dwindling out, and Joseph was tr3ing to reconcile himself to the fact that his shy and timid young daughter would remain an infant for the rest of her life. Once only he wrote to Elizabeth: "It were better if she had died, for though her bodily health has been restored and she is becoming quite plump, her mental faculties do not increase. The only consolation I have is that she is seemingly contented, as she was as a very young child, and laughs and plays as that child, and is docile and affectionate, and, above all, happy with the innocence of childhood. Her lineaments and color are those of a young child. Who knows but what this is kinder to her than maturity, and growing old and bitter and disillusioned and sad, and full of the fears of maturity'? At least she will never know these, never know loss or discontent or wretchedness. She is in the Limbo about which we were taught by the priests, that is, in a state of 'natural' happiness where there is no darkness, no fright, no longing, but only affection and kind words and care." Rory wrote Elizabeth that the family expected to return in the spring with Ann Marie. Doctors had strongly' urged that the girl be placed in "a comfortable retreat with those other unfortunates who had been born in that condition, where she will receive professional solicitude and taught simple tasks and be among her own kind." Bernadette had eagerly agreed, thinking of the melancholy presence of her daughter in her house, with attendant nurses and constant comings and goings of physicians, and "disruptions," as Rory quoted his mother. But Joseph had refused. His daughter would live and die in her home. Elizabeth, against her will, sympathized with Bernadette. It was all very well for Joseph, who was rarely in Green Hills, except for an occasional weekend and holidays. His would not be the daily depression of the sight of nurses and the bulletins of physicians, tie would not have to see Ann Marie daily, and remember her as she was. He would not have to deal with recalcitrant servants, who resented the darkening presence of an invalid and the special meals and the authority of bustling nurses, who could be arrogant. All this would be the province of the gregarious, lively and active Bernadette, who hated responsibility and especially hated the very sight and smell of illness either in herself or others. If Ann Marie, in her present state, were deeply attached to her parents, the matter would be different, but Elizabeth gathered that she was equally happy with nurses and servants abroad, did not miss anyone who did not appear as usual, and hardly recognized Bernadette or Joseph. Once Joseph had had to be in London for three weeks--he had taken Rory with him--and when he went to Ann Marie on his return the girl had not recognized him at all, and had been shy with him for nearly a week. That, thought Elizabeth, must have been devastating. Is he punishing Bernadette for what he suspects, but does not know? Elizabeth would ask herself. Is he punishing her because Bernadette was never fond of the poor child, and is this his revenge? Even Elizabeth who knew him better than anyone else in the world could not answer her own questions. When she thought of Ann Marie it was like thinking of the dead, for the girl was now no longer a young adult, and could no longer take her place with the living. What lived in Ann Marie was not the thinking and speculating and wondering soul, alive to experience and joy, and even sorrow. It was a simple, natural, animal spirit which would never grow older, never develop, never know love, never miss anyone, never rejoice. Sometimes Elizabeth thought: Is Ann Marie's brain permanently damaged, or is she in retreat from life and will not return to it? There were some gentle people who once cruelly injured could no longer face existence as it was, and is, and develop loss of memory or fly back into a childhood which was less painful, less agonizing, less demanding of acceptance. Once again on that rose-island full of unending sunlight they would never return. No one could answer Elizabeth's conjectures, for no one knew. Had Bernadette driven her daughter back into those infantile days--be- cause the present and the future were too direful to face for one like Ann Marie--or had it all been truly an "accident"? Bernadette would not speak, of course, if she knew anything at all, and Courtney and Kevin had been explicit enough and their stories had never varied. Yet Elizabeth, highly intuitive, had the strangest conviction that both the young men had not spoken of an enlightening incident. She remembered that Courtney had said that Ann Marie had regained consciousness briefly in the woods, had recognized him and had spoken to him, had asked where she was and how she had come to be there, and had told him that she loved him. Yet, later, when Elizabeth had asked him to repeat that to her he had looked at her with green eyes newly chill and remote and had said, "Mother, you must have imagined it, or mistaken what I said. I only said that she opened her eyes once; whether she knew me or not I don't know. She immediately lapsed into a coma again." So, Courtney, who never lied, had lied to his mother. The reason could only be guessed by intuition, and intuition could be wrong. At any rate the strong deep bond between mother and son had been destroyed. Whether or not it would regrow was only a conjecture. The loss was greater to Elizabeth than the thought of Ann Marie, who at least did not know pain and would never know it in the future. In the meantime Elizabeth watched the slow and desolate winter days come and go, and at last the clear cold light of February, the dark storms of March. Spring always comes, she would comfort herself, though it is not the springs we knew in our past. Life is not reall
y renewed. It only rises from dead leaves of sorrow and loss and suffering, and it is stained by them so that each new spring brings its own sad remembrance, its old yearning, its old spasms of pain, and is dimmed inexorably so that the last spring is full of shadows and without color, without meaning, and the farewell is without regret. the best hope given to man in the Bible was, "In the grave there is no remembrance." Elizabeth's own house was as silent and deserted as the Armagh house, for no longer were there joyous anticipations of meeting Joseph in New York, no laughing excursions with him, no long talks before a comforting fire, no lying with him in a warm bed entwined like two trees, no morning sight of his face, no leaping of the heart at the sound of his voice. Only in love is there a real springtime, she would sadly reflect. Only love makes us immortal and immune to living; only in love is there youth and hope. Without it, we are blasted trees in an ashy forest where nothing moves or has a significant being, and where there is no sunset and no rising of tile sun, but only a smoky twilight. Elizabeth did not go to New York for concerts and the theater or for shopping. She was not the sort to make friends readily, or keep them close to her, for she was essentially dependent upon men and had little regard for women as confidantes or companions. So she sat in her deserted house and watched the weeks go by, and lived only for the spring when Joseph would return. In the meantime her own life was in abeyance. Would she and Joseph ever know again the profound intimacy of trust, of love given with abandon? Or would the memory of that hot disastrous night slide in the midst of their love like a doubting traitor? It doesn't matter, Elizabeth would think. So long as he is within sight and sound, nothing will matter to me. Is it only women who are abject in love? We can forgive everything, even betrayal, even insult and neglect and unfounded accusations . Men are more to us than women are to men, I seem to remember, and that is probably our curse. I try to feel pride and I can only wallow in my longing to see him again. Had I mortified him as he mortified me he would never look at me all the rest of my life, but all I desire is embracing him once more. When lye took me home that night I could think of nothing but asking him to love me for forgiving him. But then, suppose it had been my own child and not Ann Marie? I remember that, and that is my own excuse to myself, for I love and so am without self- respect and am willing to condone.
In early January Joseph cabled his son Rory: MEET ME IN LONDON" ON" THE 17TH THIS MONTH. Damn, thought Rory. Has some doctor given him some new hope? No, that is not like the Old Man. It is something else. Pa is one of the kind that doesn't "hope," and I'll give him credit for that. He's too realistic. He said to his wife, Marjorie: "I have to leave you for a while, my love, for my father is asking me to go to him in London." Marjorie said, with spirit, "Take me with you. I'd like to meet your father. Yes, dear, I know. You still have your education to complete and you are Papa's puppet and are afraid to let him know that you are married to a descendant--lateral-- of Paul Revere. It would lower the tone of your family." She added pensively, "I wonder what Daddy would think of all this. I really do." "Maggie, don't be a shrew." Marjorie smiled sweetly. "That is always the crashing answer of a man, isn't it? It's supposed to make a wife grovel." She threw herself into his arms and cried, "Rory, Rory! lust don't stop loving me! Just go to your father and remember I am here, waiting. Rory, I'd die for you. And isn't that something I should be ashamed of? Never mind. Kiss me." "You women demand too much," said Rory, indulgent to her for loving .. him. "We have affairs, and all you can think of is kissing." "And love," said Marjorie. "Didn't St. Paul say that was above faith and hope? Never mind. One of these days you men will learn the truth of that if you don't destroy the world first." "Oh, we are very predatory beasts, like all males," said Rory, and went to London. Rory knew that nothing could be so dank, dark, cold, and miserable as England in winter, so wet and depressing, so foggy and smoky, with every chimney pot thickly and turgidly spewing out black soot and the stench of coal gas, and with a sky hardly lighter. However, he liked sea journeys and the ship was comfortable and luxurious Rory had hounded "old" Charlie Devereaux for first class fare, something which Joseph did not approve of for "profligates." So Rory had a fine stateroom all to himself, his breakfast in bed, and a chair on the sheltered portion of the promenade deck. He had also taken his law books with him, for he had no intention of falling back in his strenuous classes, and some books of poetry and history. Like his father, he read intensively and constantly, something which surprised strangers who did not reconcile "bookishness" with such an easy, amiable and articulate, and above all, such a handsome and vigorous young man who was always ready to engage in any sport and had a reputation as a womanizer. Rory did not usually like books concerning politics, though he liked politics itself, but his father had said with that saturnine smile of his, "No matter. It is more important to learn about the people who control politicians and the events of a nation, and decide its destiny." Rory had already met a few in New York. He kept his opinions to himself. Rory was not a young man who particularly admired modesty and the modest. "Why hide something if you have something superior to show?" he would say. So he had contrived that the captain of the ship knew that he was on board and he was immediately invited to the captain's table, the captain a Scotsman with a bright red beard and mustaches and hair, even to the hair growing out of his ears. He also had pointed blue eyes, like drills, Rory commented to himself, and a big Semitic nose, and his name was MacAfee, and he was gallant to the ladies at his table and brusk with the men. He decided he did not like Rory's sort, brash, smiling too much, too rich, too friendly. However, on the third day out he was not so certain in his dour Scots' mind that Rory was lightheaded, spoiled and a little stupid, and by the fifth day--though his original dislike had not abated--he thought the bucko was in some way in need of watching, "though it's hard to put a finger on it," he confided to his first mate, who was also Scots. "Smiles like a bloody bright sun in the morning, smiles all the time, jests--that he does--and walks like a dancer, but there's some that makes a man's hackles rise." "He's Irish," said the second mate. "That he is," said the captain, scowling, and tugging at his red beard. "And a Papist,, no dont. But we must remember, laddie, that he is a Celt like us, for a' that." He scowled again. "I know all about Iris Dada, and that's a blasted one, but he's a director of this line. A shame it is." Rory hardly liked Captain MacAfee better than the captain liked him, but Rory was not a man who cultivated dislike and grudges and prejudices as a matter of course. It was too time-consuming, when there were more interesting things to notice and enjoy, particularly the company of a vet3" young lady who sat at his left hand and who was accompanied by a strict middle-aged lady with an enormous bosom glittering with jet, a face like a partly domesticated harpy with a suspicious mind and dark little eye "like a snake's," the jovial Rory remarked to himself. Rory learned almost at once that the interesting young girl was Miss Claudia Worthington, and that she was the daughter of the Ambassador from the United States of America to the Court of Her Majesty, Queen Victoria--the Court of St. James's. She had had a bad "chill" in the winter and had just recovered, but was not returning to her finishing school in New York, where she was in her last term, but was going to "Papa and Mama" in London "for the summer, and journeys to Devon and Paris." Miss Lucy Kirby, the formidable harpy, was her chaperone and had been her governess, and was also her personal attendant. It was Miss Kirby's opinion that Miss Claudia was a "chatterbox," and at that it was very ill-bred of her to take to a stranger even if he sat next to father at the captain's table, and that the stranger was no doubt a scoundrel --to judge from his somewhat flamboyant clothing, his unreserved and "too familiar manners," and his way of laughing very heartily and showing all his big white teeth. He was entirely too facile, too cheerful, to be a gentleman. Even when Miss Kirby heard who he was she had tossed her head forbiddingly. Rory did not rise in her estimation. It was not hard in America to acquire vast fortunes--if one had no scruples, and Joseph Armagh, it was usually hinted in some unfriendly newspapers, was not disting
uished for scruples and "bought and sold politicians like horses at a horse fair." The fact that her employer, the Honorable Stephen Worthington, was not distinguished for scruples, either, but--the New York Times had openly declared--had "bought" his ambassadorship, did not lessen him in Miss Kirby's regard. After all, he had a Position. Besides, he paid her generously and his wife was a lady. It came to Miss Kirby eventually that the ambassador knew Joseph Armagh very well, indeed, and met him frequently in Washington, though when at home in his mansion on Fifth Avenue in New York he had a way of talking about Mr. Armagh which implied good-tempered contempt and more than a little fear. Miss Kirby, who was no idiot, had learned that the contempt was assumed in order to hide the more baleful emotion, and so she had come to the conclusion that Mr. Armagh was a monster and should be ridden out of the country on a rail, after being thoroughly tarred and feathered. And this was his son who sat so at ease and rallied Miss Claudia mirthfully, and teased her! It was hardly to be borne. Claudia was only sixteen, but a knowledgeable and sophisticated sixteen, for she knew the value of position and money. Rory thought her affected at first, or even not very well-bred, for there was a certain exaggeration of gentility and ceremony about her. She wore gloves at all times, and took them off only at the table, to reveal hands which were not at all elegant or even pretty, and had large knuckles and hard angles. But Rory saw almost at once that she was not conscious of the imperfections of her hands, and that she wore gloves all the time as the mark of a lady who also had a Position. She was a tall girl with a body too slight for beauty but with hips that needed no padding to exceed normal expansion and be in high hourglass style, and Rory suspected that her legs would be heavy in proportion also. He also suspected that the young bosom had been assisted with certain artifices which gave it more importance for a girl of sixteen, and therefore nubile, and with a very slender waist which he was certain a man could embrace with two hands without trouble. He liked thin waists in girls, though he knew this was often obtained only at the cost of painful whalebone and tight laces. Rory adored pretty women. Even his passionate love for Marjorie, his wife, had not dimmed his appreciation of the other sex, nor would he have rejected overtures of an amatory nature from any delectable female. He knew his own nature well, but did not feel that he was being false to Marjorie. He loved Marjorie and he would never love anyone else, he told himself, and in a curious way this was quite true. Yet a little frolicking with a charmer of a bent like his own would not harm his devotion to Marjorie, and would certainly not diminish his joy in her. He had never had any real intention of remaining totally faithful to Marjorie--though this decision was, for the first few months, not in his conscious thoughts. His first impression of Claudia Worthington was that she was not in the least pretty or enticing, but "foreign" in appearance, and he was not sure that he liked "foreignness" in women. She had an angular face with broad cheekbones and deep hollows under them, a straight somewhat arrogant nose, a very broad pink mouth, and tilted eyes which made him think of them as "Oriental." They were of an unusual color, dark greenish brown. Her eyebrows were abnormally thick and black and almost met at the bridge of her nose, and were tilted also. She had a strong and obstinate chin with a dimple. Her neck was not sweet and tender, as a girl's should be, but had a tint of sallowness in it, and visible cords. Her hair was chestnut brown, thick and shining as the hide of a well-kept animal, coarse and heavy and plentiful, and so needed no "rats" or switches to make it rise impressively high in the new pompadour over her somewhat low dark forehead, and the two long curls that fell from it over her shoulders were "real" also. She dressed with instinctive taste, and not with that tendency of young girls to elaborate on current fashion. Her dresses were rich but decorous, her belts broad but restrained, her shoes daintily narrow, her coats marvelously cut, her jewels becoming to a girl that age. She wore little gold buttons in her ears and almost always just a short string of finely matched pearls, and a pearl ring on her finger surrounded with opals. For diversion, for flirtatious episodes no matter how innocent, Rory preferred blatant women as did his father, but for an entirely different reason. Joseph's preference rose from a desire to regard a woman as only an object for necessary and immediate pleasure, and then to forget her, allowing her no part in his life, and not even a memory. But Rory liked blatant women because they were usually full of fun, health, zest, and common sense, and never "clung" to a man demanding more than he was prepared to give. Rory decided at once that Claudia was not a blatant girl, and right after that that she was not pretty in a way he liked, and that she had a manner of opening her eyes very wide that might have been engaging in a lovelier girl but was only just a hard stare in Claudia, and not an attractive one at that, and, with the heavy brows above them too low over them they gave her a rather scowling look even when the lips below them were smiling. She is a sullen piece, Rory had thought the first day, and had decided to ignore her. Then, at dinner, he was startled. It was not that she wore anything unusual. The mauve silk gown with its pearl-beaded bodice decorated with a jeweled watch was stylish enough and enhanced her figure. It was something rise. He found he could hardly look away from this unpretty girl, with the pouting pink under lip and the very unprovocative profile. Just when he had decided that she was quite ordinary in appearance, he found himself thinking, Why, she is exotic, captivating, unusual! The next instant she was only a schoolgirl on holiday again, chattering about something inconsequential in her rather light and immature voice, a voice quite infantile. She had a mannerism of hurrying too fast in her speech so that her words ran together, then catching her breath in a rush. Sometimes her voice was inaudible, though her lips continued to move rapidly. It was this quality of hers--to appear commonplace at one moment then inordinately esoteric the next--without a feature changing--which was entrancing. She used no overt arts to attract, no learned coquettishness. Rory had heard of charm, and he thought Marjorie exquisite, but now he saw that there was an irresistible attribute that was really charm in its full meaning and had nothing whatsoever to do with beauty or any endearing possession of the owner, or any grace of character or anything that can be learned and successfully imitated. At these moments Claudia's very deficiencies of conventional beauty only enhanced that magnetism so that the observer was left feverishly wondering what it was about her that was so striking, so fascinating, so able to hold the eye that one could not turn away. Her expression, her eyes, her smile, her manner? It was none of these. It was something intrinsic and explicit, and if the girl knew that she had it she seemed unaware. But Rory soon saw that the captain and two other gentlemen at the table were as caught by this indefinable but powerful thing as he was, and that they were as fascinated as he and doubtless as bewildered. It was not simply a sexual thing in itself, nor did it imply sexuality. It was only there, as fearful a weapon as any woman could possess, and enchanting. It was mysterious, even when the person possessing it was not in the least mysterious. In the days that followed Rory tried to fathom the secret of bonafide charm, but it was not to be known, nor analyzed. The girl's character was not impressive for depth, intellect or kindness or sympathy or perceptiveness. It was, in fact, somewhat shallow, without flair or passion or subtlety. But there was in it, too a hardness, a perverse decisiveness, a self-absorbed egotism, which should've been repellent. There was a hint of greed and exigency in it also. Yet, Rory would think, what is it she has? When she turned that charm upon him--consciously or unconsciously--she appeared the most adorable creature in the world, desirable above all other women, and he felt giddy. Now he could understand the masculine fools who gave up thrones, honor, family, tradition, obligations, and pride for women like this. But Rory wanted something more in a woman than even this intimidating yet resistless charm. He walked every morning and evening on the promenade deck with Claudia, who found him delightful, as she told Miss Kirby with defiance, Rory huddled in coats and Claudia in furs, and Miss Kirby trailing them like a truculent and silently protesting grenadier in brown tweeds and a sable boa
. Rory, the politician, knew that it was necessary to cultivate everyone of any importance, and Claudia was important, and even though after the fifth day she bored him almost to open yawning and flight, he was gallant to her. She chattered, and it was usually only about herself, her clothes, the people she knew, her school, her friends, her family, her "distinguished" father, what he had said to the Queen and what Her Majesty had said to him, her coming presentation to the Queen, in-feathers and white silk, how the Princess of Wales had admired her mother's Christmas gown and jewels, horses, dogs, her pet cat, and her dull lessons, which Miss Kirby presided over every morning after breakfast. If Rory tried to introduce another subject, such as books or travel, she would glance at him impatiently and say, in a light petulant voice, "Really? Don't you think Paris too advertised? Did I tell you what Angela Small, the minx, said to me before I took ill? It was too, too malicious." But Rory noticed that she never failed to mention the financial position of anyone she spoke of, or quoted, or their social eminence. If she had ever had a poetic thought, or had ever been aware of the world of nature and beauty about her, it was not evident. Music? She liked Gilbert and Sullivan, of course, everybody did. Opera was dull. (She used that word for everything that did not catch her interest or was irrelevant to her.) Her world was herself, foremost. All things and people orbited about her. She accepted this fact with complacency, and never questioned it. So long as Rory did not look directly at her he was unaware of her charm, her mysterious magic and fascination. Then she was only a school miss who was ineffably dull herself, and somewhat stupid, self-engrossed, incapable of forming good judgment about others except when it served her own interests, and materialistic to a degree which even the materialistic Rory found repulsive. It was only when he looked at her that he was undone and shaken, though his intrinsic dislike for her did not lessen. In truth, it increased, for her attraction for him made him dislike himself, also, and hurt his own egotism. He began little maneuvers to avoid her, but she was there at lunch and dinner, and she could always find him for walks, and so at last he said to himself, Why, this silly little thing is actually pursuing me! His male pride was tickled, but he wished that she had some authentic intelligence and did not prattle clich6s she had been taught in her school and in her society, and that she had just one original thought occasionally. At the farewell party given by the captain just before arrival in Southampton, Claudia appeared in rose-lace and satin and was so compelling that hardly a man could keep his eyes from her, and Rory thought, She is the most beautiful thing in the world, yet she hasn't a single beautiful feature and not the ghost of a brain in her head! She was delighted that people believed her to be at least eighteen, and delighted to inform them that she hadn't yet "come out." But then, she would say, she would be seventeen in two months. Claudia and Miss Kirby were met at Southampton by two of the ambassador's attaches. Claudia graciously introduced them to Rory, and mentioned that his dear Papa was the famous Joseph Armagh, and Rory was invited to accompany the party in their special coach to London. But Rory had had, for the present, quite enough of Miss Worthington, for all her charm, and hastily excused himself and disappeared. In some way, as he sat in the first class carriage on the sooty train to London, he felt that he had escaped, and he thought of Marjorie who had intelligence, wit and perception, and a lovely depth of character, and sympathy. The train was cold, but the thought of Marjorie warmed him, and he took out his writing case and wrote her a letter on the spot. It was very fervent and Marjorie was overjoyed when she received it, though she blushed at some of the innuendoes. Rory avoided Claudia and her party at the great and thunderous and smoky station in London, and found himself a hack and was on his way to the somber if luxurious hotel at which Joseph usually stayed in the city. As Rory feared, it was dank and rainy and dark in London, and a foggy mist brooded over it, and black umbrellas glistened everywhere on the milling streets and the omnibuses splashed through puddles and there was the pervading stink of coal gas. Even the shoplights looked dim and dreary. The hotel was huge and old, ponderous and comfortable, and, thank God, there was a large fire in the fireplace in the lobby and so the interior was just a little warmer than it was outside. Everything was dark crimson and mahogany and looking-glasses framed in old gilt, and everything was hushed as if in a cathedral. But there were bowls of daffodils on the tables and some narcissi, grown in hothouses no doubt, thought the chilled Rory. He went up to the usual Armagh suite on the third floor in the gilded and creaking elevator which was raised and lowered by ropes. (No effete electricity here!) Why did his father choose this hotel, when there were a few gayer ones in London? He never knew that when Joseph entered this lobby he was really fleeing from a leaking thatched hut in Ireland, and that he had just escaped murderous enemies on the black highways outside. The suite was enormous, and thank God again, filled with firelight and .i lamplight and blessedly warm. To' knew that his father could not bear the cold, but he did not know why. He could only be grateful. He saw at once that Joseph had grown much older, and was thinner than ever, though controlled as usual. The broad stripes of whitish-gray in his thick russet hair had widened. He greeted his son as though he had seen him but the day before. But Rory said, "How is Ann Marie? Is she, and Ma, with you?" "They are in a sanitarium in Paris," said Joseph. "Ann Marie? She is the same. Rosy and healthy, flourishing." He paused. He looked down. "She will never recover her mind. We are reconciled to that now." His closed face did not change but there was a sinking about his mouth. "I am here for only a few days, Rory. On business. It is time that you were introduced to men who matter." "The ones I met in New York?" "No. You saw only the Americans. Now you will meet the international-" He stopped. Then he repeated, "The men who matter." He explained no further. They had a sumptuous dinner in their private dining room but Rory noticed that his father ate very little. But then, he always did. He hardly touched the wine, which Rory drank with gusto, his ruddy face becoming even more ruddy. From time to time his father studied him acutely if not openly. The fires crackled; the scent of roast beef and Yorkshire pudding and kidney pie was comforting. Rory liked to make his father smile and forget his somberness. So in his lively and amusing way he told him about Claudia. "The ambassador's daughter?" said Joseph, showing some interest. "A chit, you say? The ambassador. That sod." It was rare for Joseph to utter obscenities, and Rory was immediately interested. "I thought he was an old friend of yours, Pa." "Friend? I have no friends," said Joseph. He studied his still-filled wineglass. "Except, perhaps, for Harry Zeff and Charles Devereaux. I have-- acquaintances. I recommended Steve to certain people, and the President. He owes me a lot." "If you have such a low opinion of him why did you recommend him?" .! asked the inquisitive Rory. .. Joseph looked at him with pent impatience. "Haven't you learned yet, from all that I have already told you, that politics is entirely removed from personalities, boyo? Do you think I, and the men I know, go about recommending good men of character and integrity? Don't be a fool, Rory, and disappoint me. Such men would not serve our purposes in the least. We pick the men who will serve us. The ambassador has power in the other party, too, for he is a rich man though not a man I'd want to see in the company of my daughter." The darkness deepened on his face as he thought of Ann Marie. "Nor with a young son of mine, either. He can help, when you run for congressman, a few years from now."