long course of poetic politics mixed with art.

I had a note from Mrs. Ascher, in which she invited me to dinner.

"Very quietly," she said. "I know my husband would like to have a talk
with you, so I shall not ask any one to meet you. Please fix your own
night. We have no engagements this week."

I got the note on Monday and fixed Wednesday for our dinner. I could not
think that Ascher really wanted to talk to me. I did not see what he had
to talk to me about; but I wanted to talk to him. I wanted to tell him
about my tour and to give him some idea of the effect which my glimpse
at his business had produced on my mind. I also wanted to find out what
he thought about Irish affairs. I had heard a good deal more talk about
the Ulster situation. Malcolmson got at me nearly every day, and several
other men, much more level-headed than Malcolmson, seemed to regard the
situation as serious. I heard it hinted that the Army would not relish
the idea of shooting the Ulstermen. I understood the feeling. If I were
still in the Army I should not like to be told to kill Malcolmson. He
was my brother officer at one time, and I found him a good comrade. The
same feeling must exist among the rank and file. Northeast Ulster was,
at one time, a favourite recruiting ground for the Guards. Malcolmson's
volunteer army was leavened with old Guardsmen, reservists, many of them
quite well known to the men still serving in the Brigade.

I could not, of course, expect Ascher to be much interested in Irish
affairs. Ireland is the one country in the world over which financiers
have not cast their net, possibly because they would catch next to
nothing there. So we, who escaped the civilisation of Roman law, almost
escaped the philosophy of the mediaeval church, were entirely untouched
by the culture of the Renaissance, remained a kind of Gideon's fleece
when the dew of the industrial system of the 19th century was moistening
Europe, are now left untouched by the new civilisation of international
finance. Yet Ascher, if not personally interested in our destiny, has a
cool and unprejudiced mind. His opinion on Irish affairs would be of the
greatest interest to me. I was not satisfied with Gorman's reading
of the situation. Nor did I feel sure that Malcolmson, though he was
certainly in earnest, quite understood what a big thing he was letting
himself in for.

The Aschers live near Golders Hill, a part of London totally unknown to
me. They have a