Marion and Elsie gazed at her in wonder. A lady who smoked cigarettes and bore the cares of State upon her shoulders was a novelty to them.
‘I have sat in the seats of the mighty,’ she said; ‘I have breathed the same air as Mr. Chesney and two members of the C.D.B. Think of that! Moreover, I might, if I liked, have drunk tea with a Duchess.’
‘Oh,’ said Hyacinth, ‘you were at the convent function, I suppose. I wonder I didn’t see you.’
‘What on earth were you doing there? I thought you hated the nuns and all their ways.’
‘Go on about yourself,’ said Hyacinth. ‘You are not employed by the Government to inspect infant industries, are you?’
‘Oh no; I was one of the representatives of the press. I have notes here of all the beautiful clothes worn by the wives and daughters of the West British aristocracy. Listen to this: “Lady Geoghegan was gowned in an important creation of saffron tweed, the product of the convent looms. We are much mistaken if this fabric in just this shade is not destined to play a part in robing the élégantes who will shed a lustre on our house-parties during the autumn.” And this—you must just listen to this.’
‘I won’t,’ said Hyacinth; ‘you can if you like, Marion. I’ll shut my ears.’
‘Very well,’ said Miss O’Dwyer; ‘I’ll talk seriously. When are you coming up to Dublin? You know my brother has taken over the editorship of the Croppy. We are going to make it a great power in the country. We are coming out with a policy which will sweep the old set of political talkers out of existence, and clear the country of Mr. Chesney and the likes of him.’ She waved her hand towards the convent. ‘Oh, it is going to be great. It is great already. Why don’t you come and help us?’
Hyacinth looked at her. She had half risen and leaned upon her elbow. Her face was flushed and her eyes sparkled. There was no doubt about the genuineness of her enthusiasm. The words of her poem, long since, he supposed, blotted from his memory, suddenly returned to him:
‘O, desolate mother, O, Erin,
When shall the pulse of thy life which but flutters in Connacht
Throb through thy meadows and boglands and mountains and cities?’