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Updated: June 18, 2025
Every shop-window was filled with goods placarded ostentatiously as 'made in Robeen. Every counter had tweeds, blankets, and flannels from the same factory. No one was in the least uncivil to him, and no one assigned any plausible reason for refusing to deal with him. He was simply bowed out as quickly as possible from every shop he entered.
He was probably right in supposing that the new costumes would add a gaiety to the religious life. Other jests followed, and he sat down amid a flutter of applause after promising that when he next presided over the Winter Assizes in a draughty court-house he would send for a Robeen blanket and wrap his legs in it. Mr.
One day, quite accidentally, Hyacinth came by a piece of information about the working of the Robeen factory which startled him. He was travelling home by rail. It happened to be Friday, and, as usual in the early summer, the train was crowded with emigrants on their way to Queenstown. The familiar melancholy crowd waited on every platform.
It was his hope to see Mayo turned into another Lancashire. When ladies of undoubted commercial ability, like the Lady Abbess who presided over the Robeen convent Lady Abbess sounded well, and Mr. Clifford was not strong on ecclesiastical titles took the matter up, success was assured.
He is German, I think to myself, making a mental note of his complexion, strangely fair for a yachtsman the eyes heavily fringed blue eyes the full-lipped, sensuous mouth, shapely of its kind, shadowed by a curling blond moustache. "You are going home round Robin Hood's barn, aren't you?" "Robeen Hoohd? Pardon, vill you tell me who is he en français?"
Then came the long mournful wail from those left behind, and the last wavings of farewell. At the Robeen station the crowd was no less than elsewhere. The carriages set apart for the emigrants were full, and at the last minute two girls were hustled into the compartment where Hyacinth sat. A woman, their mother, mumbled and slobbered over their hands.
Shopkeepers even explained apologetically that they gave their orders to the Robeen convent for purely commercial reasons. 'Their goods are cheaper than yours, and that's the truth, Mr. Conneally. Hyacinth recognised that Mr. Quinn was being beaten at his own game.
It was a brilliant July day, and the convent at Robeen was decked for a festival. The occasion was a very great one. Cloth of gold hung in the chapel, the entrance-hall was splendid with flowers, and the whole white front of the buildings had put on signs of holiday. Indeed, this festival was unique, the very greatest day in the history of the sisterhood.
The Baron looks puzzled. "I know not dthat kind of hat. Ees it like vhat you tell me about vhen I first see you dthat 'Robeen Hood'?" I stand still in the quiet street and wake a far-off echo with my laughter. The Peruvian gets red in the face and begins to look offended.
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