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thought it uncommonly handsome of him, a further proof of his offhanded generosity and tolerance. Mr. Bradshaw pressed him to another liberal measure of whiskey. Father O’Connor declined a glass of port; Mr. Bradshaw helped himself instead.
    “You’ve had the training, Father,’ he said.
    ‘In the seminary we were allowed to study music.’
    ‘One can hear it in the voice. It’s unmistakable.’
    ‘The training, yes,’ Father O’Connor said, ‘but not the equipment.’ He laughed. He was a genuinely modest man.
    ‘I know now what keeps you in Kingstown,’ Mrs. Bradshaw said, smiling affectionately at him. ‘You love training our church choir.’
    ‘Have you chaps a choice?’ Mr. Yearling asked. ‘I mean, about where you are going to be stationed?’
    ‘Oh no,’ Mr. Bradshaw explained, ‘a priest must go where he’s sent. It’s part of the rule of obedience.’
    ‘We can apply for special work,’ Father O’Connor added.
    The friendly interest of the company focussed on him and he responded to it before he quite realised it.
    ‘As a matter of fact, I may be leaving Kingstown shortly.’
    ‘Oh no,’ Mrs. Bradshaw said.
    ‘I’ve asked to be transferred to a poor parish. I’d like to work among the poor.’
    He discovered too late that he had embarrassed the company. He became embarrassed himself. He plunged on.
    ‘My mother had a great devotion to St. Vincent de Paul, you see, and she encouraged it in me too.’
    ‘Is that why you were christened . . . ?’
    Mr. Yearling, not certain of the propriety of mentioning a priest’s Christian name, left his sentence unfinished.
    ‘Yes. I was called Vincent,’ Father O’Connor said.
    ‘We would be very sorry to lose you,’ Mrs. Bradshaw said.
    ‘Perhaps you won’t,’ Father O’Connor said, ‘perhaps I have not the ability.’
    It was obvious that he was not anxious to say any more. He looked across at Mr. Bradshaw.
    ‘Isn’t it time our host obliged?’ he suggested generally.
    Mr. Bradshaw rose and looked for suggestions to his wife. She said:
    ‘The policeman’s song from The Pirates. ’
    Mr. Yearling laughed and said:
    ‘Well, that’s topical enough anyway. I see Mr. Larkin has the police going on strike in Belfast too.’
    Everybody enjoyed the joke except Mrs. Bradshaw, who did not follow the reference. Mr. Yearling explained to her that Larkin had spoken to the policemen who were keeping his strikers in order and had told them that they were not being paid enough for their heavy duties. He had roused them to such a pitch of resentment that the police were threatening to go on strike too.
    ‘That’s why the Chief Secretary asked for the help of the military,’ Mr. Bradshaw put in.
    Mrs. Bradshaw said Larkin must be a remarkable strike leader. It all sounded fantastic.
    ‘Gilbertian,’ Mr. Yearling roared, in sudden inspiration. Everybody laughed aloud and as a result of his aptness Mr. Bradshaw’s rendering of ‘A Policeman’s Lot’ was punctuated all the time by smiles and laughter.
    ‘We really must be serious,’ Mrs. Bradshaw said when it was over.
    ‘Very well,’ said Father O’Connor, ‘why not something from The Yeomen of the Guard ?’
    ‘Yes,’ Mr. Yearling said, ‘why shouldn’t we too introduce the military.’
    But Father O’Connor, having acknowledged the quip, went on to deal seriously with the opera he had mentioned. He said he had always felt that The Yeomen of the Guard contained Sullivan’s best music. The rest agreed. Mr. Yearling praised Sullivan’s setting for ‘Onward Christian Soldiers’. Mr. Bradshaw drew attention to the musical excellence of ‘The Lost Chord’.
    ‘How long is it since he died?’ Mr. Yearling tried to remember.
    ‘Seven years,’ Mrs. Bradshaw said.
    ‘It doesn’t seem that long, really.’
    ‘Florence is right,’ Mr. Bradshaw said. ‘It was in 1900. I remember now.’
    ‘We can be proud that he was an Irishman,’ Father O’Connor said.
    Mr. Bradshaw liked