“Occasionally—to dine; or to talk with Miss Mairs. We are amiable friends, although she doesn’t confess to me.”
Bourke raised his head slowly. Something seemed to swirl through his heavy heart.
“Is Honora Mairs a Catholic?” he asked.
“She is indeed, and, like all converts, full to the brim and running over.”
Bourke leaned forward, his hand clinching about his chin, his elbow pressing his knee with such force that his arm vibrated. He had been raised a Catholic—he knew its grip. His mind was trained to grasp opportunities on the moment, to work with the nervous yet mathematical rapidity of electric currents. And like all great lawyers he was a great actor.
“Tim,” he said meditatively, “I’m feeling terribly bad over that poor girl I couldn’t save.”
“Sure and I should think you would, Garan. My heart’s breaking for her myself.”
“Did you read the trial, Tim?”
“No, faith, I didn’t. I’ve been too busy with these godless folk. Sure they get away from us priests when they get into America. It’s only one more drop to hell.”
“You’re right, Tim, you’re right. You always saw things at a glance. But I’ve got a great work for you to do,—a great work for you and for the Church.”