“It could be worse.”
“That’s no recommendation,” said Morrison with a laugh, but seeing that Norah failed to understand him, he went on: “I don’t think you could have a life much harder than this.”
“I did not even kiss you last night,” he said after a short silence, “and now you are going away and maybe never coming back again. I would kiss you now, only some of the squad might see us, and you wouldn’t like that.”
But for the squad Morrison cared nothing. He was just on the point of kissing Norah when he noticed his father looking at him through a window of the farmhouse. Although not respecting his father overmuch, for old Morrison was a hard-drinking and short-tempered man, the son did not want the little love affair to be spoken of in the house.
“If you stay to-night in Greenock, Norah, I’ll go down with you,” said the young fellow. “Will you stay?”
“Why should I stay?” asked Norah, who did not understand what Morrison’s words meant.
“Because—well, you see—” stammered the youth. “Oh! I think you’d better go with the rest. I’ll see you next year.”
He held out his hand, clasped hers almost fiercely and without another word turned and went towards the house. On the way he lit a cigarette, rubbed a speck of dirt from the knee of his well-creased trousers, and wondered why he wanted to take possession of the innocent girl. Despite his high-flown views on the equality of man, Morrison never thought of marrying Norah. Besides, there was Ellen Keenans, the advanced woman and author of Songs of the Day, and it was Ellen who taught him what man’s conception of duty towards the race should be. At the present moment Morrison did not see how he could fit in with Ellen’s teachings.
That night most of the squad sailed for Ireland; Gourock Ellen and Annie took their way to Glasgow, and Dermod Flynn set out on the open road, ragged, penniless, and alone.