The train of reasoning which connected voluptuous thoughts with Derryaghy was difficult to follow, yet I was not surprised that my father had come out there. With him all roads led to Derryaghy, and I could never understand what he really felt about my position in relation to Mrs. Carroll. When he spoke face to face with her his manner always expressed something like a carefully repressed disapproval, and at the same time he allowed me to remain under countless obligations to her. For example, she looked after, that is to say, she paid for, my clothing. Also it had been settled recently that she was to pay my school, and later my university, expenses. I believe a struggle was perpetually going on within him between his consciousness of my interests and a desire to tell her to mind her own business and to leave him to look after his son himself. This peculiar combination of natural antipathy, a fear to give offence, and a sense that it was his duty to be thankful, was singularly ill adapted to produce a graceful attitude in his personal dealings with her, and I do not think she cared for him. “Now that Mrs. Carroll has her nephew and niece, there is no need for you to go there so often,” he went on. “I was glad to see that you did not stay late to-night.” He added the last words in a conciliatory tone, even with approval. “Why don’t you like her?” I asked simply. He fixed his eyes sternly upon me. “Why don’t I like whom?” “Mrs. Carroll.” “Mrs. Carroll! I don’t think I understand you!” As I gave no further explanation he returned to his exercises, but I could see an irrepressible desire to justify himself working in his mind. It broke out in another minute. “You don’t appear to realise that your question accuses me of both ingratitude and hypocrisy! Or, possibly, that is what you intended to do?” Oh, how well I knew this mood, and how we would go round and round the same little circle, and how he would outwardly be so calm and reasonable and not in the least annoyed, yet inwardly be perfectly furious. “I think I’ll go to bed,” I murmured, getting up, and pretending to yawn. My yawn was only meant to convey sleepiness, but my father saw in it impertinence. “Why do you try to vex me?” he asked. “I don’t try to vex you. Why should I?” “Mrs. Carroll is different from us. Her position in life is different; it alters her view of everything; it is only natural that she should be more worldly.” “Is she very worldly?” I asked, without enthusiasm. Anybody less so, I could hardly imagine, but there was no use arguing. My father branched off in another direction. “To-night, at dinner, were you offered wine?” “I had some claret.” “You remembered I had told you I would rather you didn’t take anything?” “No.” “Are you speaking the truth, Peter?”