As soon as the noise made by the passing of decanters had died down my father spoke again.
"This is the proudest day of my life. It's the day I've worked for and slaved for and saved for, and it's come to pass at last."
There was another chorus of applause.
"What's that you were saying in church, Mr. Curphy, sir? Time brings in its revenges? It does too. Look at me."
My father put his thumbs in the arm-pits of his waistcoat.
"You all know what I am, and where I come from."
My husband put his monocle to his eye and looked up.
"I come from a mud cabin on the Curragh, not a hundred miles from here. My father was kill . . . but never mind about that now. When he left us it was middling hard collar work, I can tell you—what with me working the bit of a croft and the mother weeding for some of you—some of your fathers I mane—ninepence a day dry days, and sixpence all weathers. When I was a lump of a lad I was sworn at in the high road by a gentleman driving in his grand carriage, and the mother was lashed by his . . . but never mind about that neither. I guess I've hustled round considerable since then, and this morning I've married my daughter into the first family in the island."
There was another burst of cheering at this, but it was almost drowned by the loud rattling of the rain which was now falling on the lantern light.
"Monsignor," cried my father, pitching his voice still higher, "what's that you were saying in Rome about the mills of God?"