"McCarthy's sick ag'in."
"Well, I'll take the Holy Oils and go down there this morning."
Ann was now herself again, or she wouldn't have come back so hard on the chronically dying McCarthy.
"Sure, ye n'adn't do that. Ye've wasted a whole gallon of Holy Oil anointin' that omadhan four times already."
The priest passed off the unthought irreverence without notice.
"I'll go and see him now, Ann. The man may be very sick. Get me my hat. I left it in my bedroom when I came in last night from O'Leary's."
Ann gave him his hat at the door, with another bit of information.
"Miss Atheson telephoned for me to ask ye to drop in to Killimaga on yer way back. Ye'll be stayin' fer lunch, as they call it?"
"Yes, I probably shall, Ann. It will save you a little work, and there are plenty of servants at Killimaga."
He went down the walk to the street. Ann looked after him, the rebuke forgotten.