, such was his good fortune, he was to marry
her. Under the circumstances a much weaker man than Sir James would
have withstood the engine driver and resisted the invitation of
Mrs. Mulcahy's hotel in Finnabeg. Under the circumstances even an
intellectual man of the professor type was liable to pleasant day
dreams.

Sir James' thoughts went back to the day, six months before, when he
had first seen Miss Molly Dennison. She had been recommended to him by
a friend as a young lady likely to make an efficient private secretary.
Sir James, who had just become Head of the Ministry of Strikes, wanted a
private secretary. He appointed Miss Dennison, and saw her for the
first time when she presented herself in his office. At that moment his
affection was born. It grew and strengthened day by day. Miss Molly's
complexion was the radiant product of the soft, wet, winds of Connaugh,
which had blown on her since her birth. Not even four years' work in
Government offices in London had dulled her cheeks. Her smile had the
fresh innocence of a child's and she possessed a curious felicity
of manner which was delightful though a little puzzling. Her view of
strikes and the important work of the Ministry was fresh and quite
unconventional. Sir James, who had all his life moved among serious and
earnest people, found Miss Molly's easy cheerfulness very fascinating.
Even portentous words like syndicalism, which rang in other people's
ears like the passing bells of our social order, moved her to airy
laughter. There were those, oldish men and slightly less oldish women,
who called her flippant. Sir James offered her his hand, his heart, his
title, and a share of his L2,500 a year. Miss Molly accepted all four,
resigned her secretaryship and went home to her father's house in
Dunadea to prepare her trousseau.

The train stopped abruptly. But even the bump and the ceasing of noise
did not fully arouse Sir James from his pleasant dreams. He looked out
of the window and satisfied himself that he had not reached Dunadea
station or indeed any other station. The rain ran down the window
glass, obscuring his view of the landscape. He was dimly aware of a
wide stretch of grey-brown bog, of drifting grey clouds and of a single
whitewashed cottage near the railway line. He lit a cigarette and lay
back again. Molly's face floated before his eyes. The sound of Molly's
voice was fresh in his memory. He thought of the next day and the return
journey acro