“No.”
“Ever eat after a better cook?”
“Certainly I never have.”
“Ever expect to?”
“No.”
He gave his booming laugh, and led the way to the porch.
“Right-o, ship-mate! Have another glass now, and we’ll drink to the gal’s health, and finish the cheese cakes.”
Passing along the main street of the village some two hours later, I saw Father O’Shan, climbing out of a ramshackle gig at the door of the post-office. I went up to him and placed my hand on his shoulder, saying:
“Good afternoon, Father O’Shan, I want to confess.”
His fine, ascetic face turned round to me with a wave of quick sympathy overspreading it; then when he saw who it was who had accosted him he laughed, a musical, clear-timbred peal, good to hear.