"You won't be able to stand this for long," he remarked. "You've lived too
turbulent a life to vegetate here."
Sir Denis laughed softly but with a new ring of real happiness.
"It's clear that you are not an Irishman!" he declared. "I've been away for
over ten years. I can just breathe this air, wander about on the beach
here, walk on that moorland, watch the sea, poke about amongst my old
ruins, send for the priest and talk to him, get my tenants together and
hear what they have to say--I can do these things, Crawshay, and breathe
the atmosphere of it all down into my lungs and be content. It's just
Ireland--that's all.--You hurry back to your own bloated, over-rich,
smoke-disfigured, town-ruined country, and spend your money on restaurants
and theatres if you want to. You're welcome."
Sir Denis' words sounded convincing enough, but his companion only smiled
as he brought his car out of a dilapidated coach-house, from amidst the
ruins of a score of carriages.
"All the same," he observed, as he leaned over and shook hands with his
host, "I should never be surprised to come across you in that
smoke-disfigured den of infamy! Look me up when you come, won't you?"
"Certainly," Sir Denis promised. "And--my regards to Nora!"
Richard Beverley, after his first embrace, held his sister's hands for a
moment and looked into her face.
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