Our very happiest times were spent on the two linen sofas that faced each other in the Rossmoyne house, drinking gin and tonics and reading Yeats aloud, passing the leather-bound volume back and forth. “Who will go drive with Fergus now, / And pierce the deep wood’s woven shade, / And dance upon the level shore?” “This one,” he would say, and read me “The Lake Isle of Innisfree.” Then he would hand me back the book and I would say, “This one.”
