MOLL. God knows, he’s speaking to me all the time, and his eyes following me everywhere.... Hide the hatchet then, so I won’t be tempted. O’C. You didn’t happen to see a small book with a greenish cover lying around here? Lindsay Gordon’s poems? MOLL. I’m sure it’s burnt. I’ve been lighting the fire with books this three days. O’C. If I saw you lighting the fire with a book, Moll, I’d put you in the oven. [_Finds the book_] Here it is. It has escaped you. [_Opens the book at random and reads._] “Life is mostly froth and bubble. Two things stand like stone: Kindness in another’s trouble, Courage in your own.” That bucks a fellow up, Moll. MOLL. The uncle--God be gracious to him--was dying about that wee book. O’C. [_turning the leaves_]. I’m looking for something to make my blood start circulating. Listen to this, Moll. [_He rattles off._] “She passed like an arrow Kildare and Cock Sparrow, And Mantrap and Mermaid refused the stone wall; And Giles on the Grayling came down at the paling And I was left sailing in front of them all.” MOLL. Many a time I heard the uncle at that. But this was his favourite bit, and he’d rhyme it over fifty times a day. [_She half sings it._] “She rose when I hit her, I saw the stream glitter, A wide scarlet nostril flashed close to my knee; Between sky and water the Clown came and caught her, The space that he cleared was a caution to see.” Fancy that now. Passing him in mid-air going over the water-lep. O’C. [_laughing_]. Good man, Moll! One other spasm. Please. It does me good to hear you. MOLL. Let me see then. God knows I’d make a fool of myself to hear your laugh. [_She recites._] “She raced at the rasper, I felt my knees grasp her, I found my hands give to her strain on the bit; She rose when the Clown did--our silks as we bounded, Brushed lightly, our stirrups clashed loud as we hit.” O’C. Magnificent, Moll! Splendid! [_Drying his eyes_] That’s the best thing I’ve heard for a long time, Moll. If I find myself at Lindsay Gordon’s grave I’ll put an extra flower on it for Moll Flanagan. MOLL. Where is he buried? In Dublin, is it? O’C. Certainly. In Glasnevin. MOLL. He hadn’t an Irish name, but he was a great poet-maker anyway. O’C. Is Paddy Kinney never back from town? MOLL [_looking out of window_]. He’s coming up the avenue at this precise minute. O’C. Well, if you want me I’ll be in the kitchen, reading bits of Gordon to the Professor. MOLL. All I can say is--you’re very idly employed. For I never seen a monument of desolation like that man walking the world. What’s he a professor av? What’s he profess to be? O’C. Theology. MOLL. Theology! And do they give him nothing to live upon? Lord help us, he’s in ruins. He’s like a rat-catcher.