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By Root 5840 0

casual conversation grew up over this violent outburst like a benevolent cloak of grass and weeds hiding some unsightly abandoned object. The weather was discussed. Miss Archer passed along a message from the far end of the table to inquire whether the young men had had good weather so far during their stay in Ireland. Yes, on the whole, reasonable enough, the answer came back. And soon the other ladies were passing their inquiries along, like so many lavender-scented handkerchieves for the poor undergraduates to wipe their bleeding lips on and return. And then, when this had taken some of the chill from the air and the line of communication had become clogged with too many questions and answers coming and going, they began to sing out their questions directly, person to person. Even some of the ladies at the other table (where the Major sat like a block of salt in front of his untouched plate) were unable to resist carolling a question or two across the intervening space—balm to the wounds of the nicely-spoken young men who had just suffered Edward’s boorish outburst. In no time the cacophony had rendered even this method of communication uncertain. “It sounds like the parrot-house at the zoo,” mused the Major grimly. And he glanced at Edward, who was staring straight ahead, features still set in a mask of rage from behind which, for the moment, the fire had consumed itself.

Besides, it was quite plain that the ladies had got the whole thing wrong—that far from being wounded the undergraduates were absolutely delighted with Edward’s outburst and were thinking: “What a perfectly splendid old Tory! What a rare find!” The whole thing was priceless: the old ladies, the revolvers (what a shame they weren’t loaded!), the decrepit palace around them—and brooding in the middle of it, John Bull! Never-say-die in person! The evening would make a rare saga when retold over beer-mugs in the buttery next term. It might be entitled: “How Maitland Put His Cherubic Head In The British Lion’s Mouth...And Got It Bitten Off!” Only Captain Roberts, who had lost his taste for battles of any description (even verbal), felt uncomfortable and heartily wished the meal were at an end.

Coffee, these days, was no longer served in a separate room but wheeled in tepid and acid to the tongue on a trolley by Murphy, who confected it himself out of heaven only knew what ingredients in some little alcove reserved for the purpose. The bright chatter of questions and answers had continued to ring undiminished throughout the dessert of apple fritters and Edward, brooding at the end of the table, was all but forgotten. But hardly had the first acid fumes of coffee from the approaching trolley reached the nostrils of the diners when he spoke again.

His words were lost in the hubbub to everyone except Danby, to whom they had been addressed. A chilled hush fell on the two long tables as Danby, smiling faintly, prepared to reply. At length, flicking aside the long lock of hair that drooped over one eye, he said: “That all depends, sir, from which side you look at it. From the point of view of the Volunteers the Easter Week rebellion must seem incredibly heroic and patriotic. As for being stabbed in the back, I’m afraid I don’t quite see how you can justify that as a description of the situation.”

“The British Army fought to defend Ireland against the Kaiser while the Catholics stayed at home safe and sound. Justify that if you can! And then...and then...and then they attacked the very lads who were giving their lives to save them! If that isn’t treachery, I’m damned if I know what is!” And Edward sat back quivering with righteous indignation.

“But you don’t even know your facts, sir...You don’t even know your facts!” cried Danby, raising his voice to the thrilling pitch that had so often brought him deserved applause from the Oxford Union. “I say again, you don’t even know your facts...Do you realize that there were a hun-dred thousand, I repeat, a hundred thousand Catholic Irishmen fighting in the British Army? There was no question of treachery at all. The