After the committee broke up, Fergus Macdermott from Belfast, who was not on one of the sub-committees, walked briskly away from the Secretariat, and had tea in company with the young man who represented the Morning Post, and who was an old school-fellow of his. Excited by his own utterances on the subject of Catholics, Fergus Macdermott suddenly remembered, while drinking his tea, what day it was.
“My God,” he remarked, profoundly moved, to Mr. Garth of the Morning Post, “it's the 8th of September.”
“What then?” inquired Mr. Garth, who was an Englishman and knew not days, except those on which university matches were to be played or races run or armistices celebrated. “What's the 8th?”
The blue eyes of Mr. Macdermott gazed at him with a kind of kindling Orange stare.
“The 8th,” he replied, “is a day we keep in Ulster.”
“Do you? How?”
“By throwing stones,” said Mr. Macdermott, simply and fervently. “At processions, you know. It's a great Catholic day—like August 15th—I forget why. Some Catholic foolery. The birthday of the Virgin Mary, I fancy. Anyhow we throw stones.... I wonder will there be any processions here?”
“You can't throw stones if there are,” his more discreet friend admonished him. “Pull yourself together, Fergus, and don't look so fell. These things simply aren't done outside your maniac country, you know. Remember where and what you are.”
The wild blue fire still leapt in Mr. Macdermott's Celtic eyes. His mind obviously still hovered round processions.