That’s when I first decided I wanted to be an actress.”

“You didn’t have such good times with your stepfather?”

“No… but he was all right—we got along quite well.”

He handed the letter back. “You were lucky to find this too, before anyone else did. Are you going to keep it?”

“You think… you think I’d better not?” She hesitated a moment, then struck a match and held the paper to it. When the flame was down to the last corner she crumpled the charred pieces into an ash-tray.

He said: “Perhaps that’s wise.”

“You don’t blame me, do you?”

“BLAME you? Blame YOU? What on earth for? Did you ever guess he was so unhappy?”

“I never guessed anything he said in the letter. That’s what makes it all such a shock. How could he not love Ireland, the poor little man?… though dear knows it’s had its troubles. And I never heard that they called him Fitzpomp at the office. FITZPOMP…” She spoke the word as if sampling it. “He seemed so keen on learning the Gaelic—he didn’t have to do that if he didn’t want to—he’d been looking forward to taking an examination—it must have been on his mind at the end because he was saying over the words—I HEARD him… and the last thing— almost the last thing he did was so normal—so tidy… just as he always was… so tidy…”

“What was that?”

“He screwed on the top of the empty bottle and put it back in his vest pocket. That’s where I found it.”

Her voice had a note that made him exclaim: “Carey, you must pull yourself together—isn’t there anyone else here in the house to help you?”

“I’m all right. My aunt and uncle came over from Sandymount— they’ll stay till—oh, till afterwards. And there’s Mrs. Kennedy too. I’m all right now—really I am. I’m glad I told somebody the truth and I’m glad it was you. I expect I told you because you’re a stranger and leaving so soon. And I’m glad you made me destroy the letter.”

“I didn’t make you, but—”

“I know, I know, and you were right. Ah God, he wasn’t a bad man. He was kind to my mother—she bossed him a lot—it’s true he did everything to please her. He was lonely after she died, but he seemed to manage. He took up all sorts of things—hobbies—studies —memory-training—those things in correspondence lessons to help with the Gaelic. Every evening he’d put in a couple of hours. And the machine over there—he bought that—it’s supposed to develop muscles… I got so used to him, I don’t know yet how much I shall miss him. I’m watching myself, in a sort of way, to find out. It’s like when you’re on the stage—you don’t exactly FEEL, you FEEL yourself FEEL. I suppose that’s the trouble with me now—I’m really ACTING—I can’t stop it—I’ve been doing it all day, more or less—I had to with the doctor—and then with all the others since… Are you shocked? Is there something wrong with me to be like that?”

He wasn’t shocked, of course; he had already diagnosed that she was acting; the problem, to him, was in the fact that he himself was not directing. If their conversation since he entered the house had really been stage dialogue, he would have known exactly what the ‘playing attitude’ should be, but because it was all happening in life he was uncertain how to behave. He knew that his compassion was one of the warmest excitements he had ever felt, but he could find no words for it. Fortunately she had now given him the kind of cue he could pick up. He said, taking her arm a little roughly: “There’s nothing wrong with you at all. Don’t you know how natural it is for any artist to come to terms with an emotion through the medium of his own art? It’s the great thing that compensates him—whatever he suffers, he has that outlet that nobody else has—he can use up what he feels, he can DO something with it, create something out of it, so that even pain, in a sort of way, seems worth while.