of what they suffer that the world may go on, that the generations may
not fail, I feel as if I want to go down on my knees and kiss the feet
of the first woman I meet in the street. What would the world be without
women? Think of St. Theresa! Think of the Blessed Margaret Mary! Think
of the Holy Virgin herself. . . ."

"Oh, stow this stuff," cried my father, and leaping to his feet, he
began to curse and swear.

"Stop that accursed bell! Is the fool going to ring for ever? Put out
those damnable lights, too. Put them out. Are the devils of hell trying
to laugh at me?"

With that, and an oath at himself for his folly, my father strode out of
the room.

My mother had heard him. Through the unceiled timbers of the floor
between them the words of his rage had reached her. She was ashamed. She
felt as if she were a guilty thing, and with a low cry of pain she
turned to the wall and fainted.

The old lord died the same night. Somewhere towards the dead reaches of
the dawn his wicked spirit went to its reckoning, and a month afterwards
the new Lord Raa, a boy in an Eton jacket, came over to take possession
of his inheritance.

But long before that my father, scoring out his disappointment like an
account that was closed, had got to work with his advocates, bankers and
insular councillors on his great schemes for galvanising the old island
into new life.