Miss O’Dwyer flushed. The vehement sincerity of his tone embarrassed her, though she was accustomed to praise.
‘You are very kind,’ she said. ‘All my friends here are far too kind to me. But come now, I must give you some tea.’
The tea was nearly stone cold and weak with frequent waterings. The saucer and spoon, possibly even the cup, had been used by someone else before. Mr. Maguire secured for himself the last remaining morsel of cake, leaving Hyacinth the choice between a gingerbread biscuit and a torn slice of bread and butter. None of these things appeared to embarrass Miss O’Dwyer. They did not matter in the least to Hyacinth.
‘Do you know the West well?’ he asked.
‘Indeed, I do not. I’ve always longed to go and spend a whole long summer there, but I’ve never had the chance.’
‘Then how did you know it was like that? I mean, how did you catch the spirit of it in your poem?’
‘Did I?’ she said. ‘I am so glad. But I don’t deserve any credit for it. I wrote those verses after I had been looking at one of Jim Tynan’s pictures. You know them, of course? No? Oh, but you must go and see them at once if you love the West. And you do, don’t you?’
‘It is my home,’ said Hyacinth.
When he had finished his tea she introduced him to some of the people who were in the room. Afterwards he came to know them, but the memories which Miss O’Dwyer’s verses called up in him made him absent and preoccupied. He scarcely heard the names she spoke. Soon the party broke up, and Hyacinth turned to look for Maguire.
‘I’m afraid Mr. Maguire has gone,’ said Miss O’Dwyer. ‘He has a lecture to attend this afternoon. You must come here again, Mr. Conneally. Come next Wednesday—every Wednesday, if you like. We can have a talk about the West. I shall want you to tell me all sorts of things. Perhaps Finola will be here next week. She very often comes. I shall look forward to introducing you to her. You are sure to admire her immensely. We all do.’