"He'll be having a game of cards with the boys. It's too soon to expect him, that's all. We'll go in and have supper."
She spread the table and put out the hot dinner she had made for Conal. Steve's hunger increased at the savoury smell of it, and because it was later than they usually had their meal, he ate steadily and with ready relish. Deirdre sat down at the table with him.
"Aren't you going to have anything?" he asked when he saw that she was not eating.
"I'll wait for Conal," she said.
Steve dozed in his chair afterwards. The night that closed in on the forest was of a soft, thick darkness. Deirdre stood in the doorway looking out into it for while. Not a star hung its silver lamp over the hills. The wind crept with slow, uncertain breaths about the shanty. She shut the door.
She carried her work-basket, with the socks that she had been mending the night before, to the table. But she could not work; her hands would not stir. She sat listening, listening, listening.
Steve had taken out his pipe and sucked it, nodding in his chair by the fire. His teeth relaxed their grip as he dozed; the pipe fell on the floor. Deirdre started to her feet as the sound broke the stillness. It wakened him too. He stared stupidly about him with sleep-dazed eyes.
"What's that?" he asked. "Has Conal come yet?"
"No," she said, picking up the pipe. "Perhaps you'd better not wait up for him."
"Yes! Yes!" he muttered testily. "Of course I'll wait."