“It’s not much comfort we have in this country anyway,” said Maire a Glan, who was turning the heel of a stocking, stopping for a moment to run one of the needles through her hair.
“I have got to go into the house now,” said Morrison, rising to his feet and holding out a hand to the fire. “I hope you’ll all have a good voyage across to-morrow night.”
“The Lord will be with us,” said Biddy Wor, who had just come in from the byre carrying a small frying-pan in one hand and a pot of porridge in the other.
“How long does it take to cross from Greenock to Londonderry?” Morrison asked Biddy Wor, meanwhile fixing his eyes on Norah Ryan.
“Derry, ye mean,” said the old woman. “We always say ‘Derry,’ but it’s the foreigner, bad luck be with him! that put London on to it. From Greenock it takes ten hours, more or less.”
Morrison drew a cigarette from a leather case which he took from his pocket. As he was lighting the cigarette he dropped the case and it fell beside Norah’s feet. He bent down hurriedly.
“Come out into the open, for I have something to say to you,” he whispered in a low voice to Norah as he stooped; then he went out, taking leave of the party in one “Good-night,” and five minutes later Norah rose from her seat and followed him.
“Where are ye goin’, girsha?” asked Maire a Glan.
“Down to the byre,” said the girl without turning round.
Morrison was standing in the shadow which fringed the fan-like stretch of light thrown from the shade.