I was going home to Drogheda

That old ability to put her in her place could still shock; she made him a mock salaam to hide her face, then sat down on the rug. "Oh, do get up, Justine!" Instead she defiantly curled her feet under her and leaned against the wall to one side of the fireplace, stroking Natasha. She had discovered on her arrival that after Cardinal Vittorio's death Rain had taken his cat; he seemed very fond of it, though it was old and rather crotchety. "Did I tell you I was going home to Drogheda for good?" she asked suddenly. He was taking a cigarette out of his case; the big hands didn't falter or tremble, but proceeded, smoothly with their task. "You know very well you didn't tell me," he said. "Then I'm telling you now." "When did you come to this decision?" "Five days ago. I'm leaving at the end of this week, I hope. It can't come soon enough." "I see." "Is that all you've got to say about it?" "What else is there to say, except that I wish you happiness in whatever you do?" He spoke with such complete composure she winced. "Why, thank you!" she said airily. "Aren't you glad I won't be in your hair much longer?" "You're not in my hair, Justine," he answered. She abandoned Natasha, picked up the poker and began rather savagely nudging the crumbling logs, which had burned away to hollow shells; they collapsed inward in a brief flurry of sparks, and the heat of the fire abruptly decreased. "It must be the demon of destructiveness in us, the impulse to poke the guts out of a fire. It only hastens the end. But what a beautiful end, isn't it, Rain?" Apparently he wasn't interested in what happened to fires when they were poked, for he merely asked, "By the end of the week, eh? You're not wasting much time." "What's the point in delaying?" "And your career?" "I'm sick of my career. Anyway, after Lady Macbeth what is there left to do?"