CHAPTER XXII
At first it seemed an ordinary, commonplace accident. A loud report like
a pistol shot: a flat tire down on our car: that was all.
We stopped, and the little taxi-cab, tagging on behind like a small dog
after a big one, halted in sympathy. Julian O'Farrell jumped out to help
Morel, our one-legged chauffeur, as he always does if anything happens,
just to remind the Becketts how kind and indispensable he is. We knew
that we should be hung up for a good twenty minutes, so the whole party,
with the exception of Mother Beckett and me, deserted the cars. Brian
was with Dierdre. He had no need of his sister; so I was free to stop
with the little old lady, who whispered in my ear that she was tired.
Father Beckett and Julian watched Morel, giving him a word or a hand now
and then. Dierdre and Brian sauntered away, deep in argument over Irish
politics (it's come to that between them: and Dierdre actually _listens_
to Brian!). Mother Beckett drifted into talk of Jim, as she loves to do
with me, and I wandered, hand in hand with her, back into his childhood.
Blue dusk was falling like a rain of dead violets--just that peculiar,
faded blue; and as I was absorbed in the tale of a nursery fire (Jim, at
six, playing the hero) I had no eyes for scenery. I was but vaguely
aware that not far off loomed a gateway, adorned with a figure of the
Virgin. A curving avenue led to shadowy, neglected lawns, dimly
suggesting some faded romance of history.
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