Clodagh felt herself colour. Unreasonably, and seemingly inexplicably, the mention of Milbanke's name jarred upon her.
"My husband has gone to see an archway in one of the churches," she said with a tinge of sharpness.
Caught by the inflexion of her voice, Gore looked at her more closely through the gathering dusk.
"And you do not share his taste for the antique?"
She turned towards him, her eyes alight with a sharp, cold brightness.
"I hate the antique!" she said with sudden vehemence.
Almost against his will, Gore looked at her again.
"And yet you come from Ireland? Isn't everything there very old?"
For an instant she looked away across the darkening waters; then her glance flashed back to his.
"Yes, old," she said passionately; "but so naturally old, that its age is not thrust upon you. Where I come from, there is a ruined chapel on the edge of a cliff that dates from the fourth century. And at the present day the peasants pray there, just as their ancestors prayed centuries and centuries ago. They don't stare at it, and read about it, and write about it, like the antiquarians do. They pray there. The chapel isn't a curiosity to them; it's a part of their lives."