“Laughing at you, Gorman, not at me. I’ve nothing to do with the poetic soul of Ireland. It’s your property.”
“The English have no real sense of humour,” said Gorman.
“They’ve got quite enough to see this joke,” I said. “An owl would giggle if it saw Mrs. Ascher going barefoot about Ireland and you following her round carrying a long spear tipped with light in your hand.”
“We must stop her,” said Gorman. “Oh, damn! Here she is again.”
Mrs. Ascher came in carrying a large morocco leather covered box, her jewel case, I suppose. She was a little calmer than when she left us but still very determined.
“Take this,” she said. “Take all there is in it. I give it gladly—to Ireland.”
Gorman looked at the jewel case and then pulled himself together with an effort.
“Mrs. Ascher,” he said, “your gift is princely, but——”
“I give it freely,” said Mrs. Ascher.
“And I shall receive it,” said Gorman, “receive it as the gift of a queen, given with queenly generosity. I shall receive it when the hour comes, but the time is not yet.”