ish party," I said, "trampling on Belfast."

"The spirit of poetry in Ireland," said Mrs. Ascher, "defying
materialism."

"That," I said, "is a far nicer way of putting it."

I took another look at the spirit of poetry. Mrs. Ascher was evidently
beginning to understand Ireland. Instead of being nude, or nearly nude,
as spirits generally are, this one was draped from head to foot. In
Ireland we are very particular about decency, and we like everything to
have on lots of clothes.

"But now," said Mrs. Ascher, tragically, "the brief dream is over.
Materialism is triumphant, is armed, is mighty."

I looked at Gorman for some sort of explanation.

"I've just been telling Mrs. Ascher," he said, "about the gun-running at
Larne."

"The mailed fist," said Mrs. Ascher, "will beat into the dust the tender
shoots of poesy and all high imaginings; will crush the soul of Ireland,
and why? Oh, why?"

"Perhaps it won't," I said. "My own idea is that Malcolmson doesn't mean
to use those guns aggressively. He'll keep quite quiet unless the soul
of poetry in Ireland goes for him in some way."

"We can make no such compromise," said Mrs. Ascher. "Art must be all or
nothing, must be utterly triumphant or else perish with uncontaminated
soul."

"The exclusion of Ulster from the scope of the Bill," said Gorman, "is
the latest proposition; but we won't agree to it."

"Well," I said, "it's your affair, not mine. I mean to stay in London
and keep safe; but I warn you that if the spirit of poesy attempts to
triumph utterly over Malcolmson he'll shoot at it. I know him and you
don't. You think he's a long-eared pig, but that ought to make you all
the more careful. Pigs are noted for their obstinacy."

"What we've got to do," said Gorman, "is devise some way of countering
this new move. Something picturesque, something that newspapers will
splash with big headlines."

I do not think that Mrs. Ascher heard this. She was looking at the upper
part of the window with a sort of rapt, Joan of Arc expression of face.
I felt that she was meditating lofty things, probably trying to hit on
some appropriate form of self-sacrifice.

"I shall go among the people," she said, "your people, my people, for
I am spiritually one of them. I shall go from cottage to cottage, from
village to village, walking barefooted along the mountain roads, dressed
in a peasant woman's petticoat. They will take me for one of themselves
and I shall sing war songs to