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Updated: May 13, 2025
Why not? We shall be able to pay the rent and have a profit out of what we shall get for sub-letting it." "Making a hotel out of your home," Mrs. MacDermott said in disgust. "Och, we're not all home-mad," John retorted. "That's the pity," his mother rejoined. Three weeks later, Eleanor, and Mrs. MacDermott departed for Ballyards.
At the same moment, in his room at the same hotel, Denis O'Shane, the Free State delegate, was typing his manifesto, which was about the tyranny exercised over South Ireland by Ulster. At 7.45 Macdermott finished his document, read it through with satisfaction and remembered that he had to go and dine with Garth.
I'm your aunt." "Aunt Nell!" he said, plainly startled by the information. "Great Scott! and I thought " He paused and looked at Mrs. MacDermott with genuine surprise. Then he recovered his self-possession. He put his arm round her neck and kissed her heartily, first on one cheek, then on the other. Aunts are kissed by their nephews every day as a matter of course. They expect it. Mrs.
MacDermott had not called him at his usual hour and so the morning was well advanced when he came down. "There's a letter for you," said Uncle William, pointing to the mantel-shelf, where a foolscap envelope rested against the clock. "It'll be about the story, I'm thinking!" John took the letter in his trembling fingers and tore it open. "They've sent it back," he said in a low tone.
MacDermott, who had been silent now for some time, made a noise with a dish on the table. "Och, sure, what does he know about love?" she exclaimed angrily. "A child that's not long left his mother's arms would know as much. Mebbe, now you've read your oul' story, John, the whole of yous will sit up to the table and take your tea!"
MacDermott looked at him in doubt. He was not in the least the sort of man she expected to see. Poets, so she understood, have long hair and sallow, clean-shaven faces. This young man's head was closely-cropped and he had a fair moustache. He was smartly dressed in well-fitting clothes. Poets are, or ought to be, sloppy in their attire.
MacDermott, finding her son in the attic where Uncle Matthew kept his books, reading an old, torn copy of Smollett's translation of Gil Blas, had said to him, "Son, dear, quit reading them oul' books, do, or you'll have your mind moidhered like your Uncle Matthew!"
Another few days, and we might have fallen into the hands of the iniquitous traffickers behind him and been deported overseas but he personally has been most good to us. All we could want...." Fergus Macdermott had pushed to the front of the interested onlookers. "I'd like to ask you one question, sir.
MacDermott had not got a retort to that statement, and John, aware that he had scored a point, hurriedly proceeded, "I was reading one time that all the work in the world was started by men that wrote books. There never was any change or progress 'til someone started to think and write!..." Mrs. MacDermott recovered her wits. "Were they happy and contented men?" she demanded.
It's better to be called John than to be called Perce!" "Why don't you get married, Lizzie?" Eleanor said. "Never been ast. That's why. I'd jump at the chance if I got it. You down't think I'm 'angin' on 'ere out of love for Aunt. I'm just 'angin' on in 'ope!..." But before Eleanor and Mrs. MacDermott went to Ballyards, they realised that John's sub-editorial work was hard and inconvenient.
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