situation and made it pleasantly plain to everybody
that her guest of honour was not to be privately monopolised.

So almost immediately all currents of conversation flowed from all
sides toward this dark-eyed, handsome man, and in return the
silver-tongued tide of many currents--the Irish Sea at its sparkling
flood--flowed prettily and spread out from its perennial source
within him, and washed and rippled gently over every separate dinner
plate, so that nobody seemed neglected, and there was jetsam and
beach-combing for all.

And it was inevitable, presently, that Murtagh Skeel's conversation
should become autobiographical in some degree, and his careless,
candid, persuasive phrases turn into little gemlike memories. For he
came ultimately, of course, to speak of Irish nationalism and what it
meant; of the Celt as he had been and must remain--utterly unchanged,
as long as the last Celt remained alive on earth.

The subject, naturally, invaded the fairy lore, wild legend and lovely
mysticism of the West Coast; and centred about his own exquisite work
of interpreting it.

He spoke of it very modestly, as his source of inspiration, as the
inception of his own creative work in that field. But always, through
whatever he said, rang low and clear his passionate patriotism and the
only motive which incited him to creative effort--his longing for
national autonomy and the re-gathering of a scattered people in
preparation for its massed journey toward its Destiny.

His voice was musical, his words unconscious poetry. Without effort,
without pains, alas!--without logic--he held every ear enthralled
there in the soft candlelight and subdued glimmer of crystal and of
silver.

His was the magic of shadow and half-lights, of vague nuances and lost
outlines, and the valued degrees of impinging shade. No sharp
contours, no stark, uncompromising shapes, no brutality of raw
daylight, and--alas!--no threat of uncompromising logic invaded his
realm of dreamy demi-lights and faded fantasies.

He reigned there, amid an enchanted twilight of his own creation, the
embodiment of Irish romance, tender, gay, sweet-minded, persuasive,
gallant--and tragic, when, at some unexpected moment, the frail veil
of melancholy made his dark eyes less brilliant.

All yielded to his charm--even the stuffed Teutons, gorging gravy; all
felt his sway over mind and heart, nor cared to analyse it, there in
the soft light of candles and the scent of old-