“But this,” said Gorman, “is a totally different thing. I happen to know what I’m talking about. The fellows who’ve got these guns are wild, irresponsible, unpractical fools. They’ve been giving us trouble for years, far more trouble than all the Unionist party put together. They don’t understand politics in the least. They’ve no sense. They’re like—like——” he looked round for some comparison, “in some ways they’re rather like Tim.”
“Dreamers,” I said.
“Exactly,” said Gorman. “They ought to be writing poetry.”
“Lofty souls,” I said, “idealists. Just exactly what Mrs. Ascher thinks you are.”
“Take the case of Tim,” said Gorman. “You’ll hardly believe it but—just look at his clothes, will you?”
Tim was standing by himself in the middle of the carriage. He looked forlorn. He was too shy, I imagine, to sit down beside Mrs. Ascher or Miss Gibson, and too much afraid of his brother to join our group. We had every opportunity of studying his clothes.
“And I told him to buy a new suit,” said Gorman.
“That,” I said, “is just the kind of man that Mrs. Ascher believes in. She was saying to me a few minutes ago that there is nothing more sordid and detestable than the worship of efficiency in practical matters.”
The mention of Mrs. Ascher’s name recalled Gorman to a sense of his duties as a host. The two ladies were not getting on very well together. I imagine that Mrs. Ascher was too much excited by her Irish news to care for talking about the Naval Review we were going to see, and that was a topic which would inevitably suggest itself to Miss Gibson. Miss Gibson, though anxious to be polite, was not likely to know or care anything about Ireland. Gorman left us and joined them.
“Well,” I said to Ascher, “what do you think of this performance in Galway?”