“Did he happen to mention,” I asked, “whether he succeeded in wheedling five thousand dollars out of that Detroit man?”
Mrs. Ascher did not hear that; or if she did chose to ignore it.
“The splendid destiny of Ireland,” she said, “has been to escape age after age the malarial fever of culture. The Romans never touched her shores. The renaissance passed her by. She has not bowed the knee to our modern fetish of education. You and I have our blood diluted with——”
Gorman must have been at his very best while he talked to Mrs. Ascher. He had evidently made a kind of whirlpool of her mind. Her version of his philosophy of history and politics seemed to me to be going round and round in narrowing circles with confusing speed. The conception of the Romans as apostles of the more malarial kinds of culture was new to me. I had been brought up to believe—not that any one does believe this as an actual fact—that Ireland was once and to some extent still is, an island of Saints and Scholars. I did not obtain any very clear idea of what Mrs. Ascher’s blood was diluted with, but there must have been several ingredients, for she went on talking for quite a long time. When she stopped I made a protest on behalf of my country.
“We’re not so backward as all that,” I said. “We have a Board of National Education and quite a large number of technical schools. In the convents they teach girls to play the piano.”
Mrs. Ascher shook her head slowly. I gathered that she knew much more about Irish education than I did and regarded it as unworthy even of serious contempt.
“Dear Ireland!” she said, “splendid Ireland!”
I suppose Gorman must have been talking to her about fairies, the dignified, Celtic kind, and the dear dark head of Kathaleen ni Houlihan. Gorman is capable of anything. However as my country was being admired I thought I might as well get a little of the credit for myself.
“I am an Irishman,” I said.
Mrs. Ascher looked at me with withering scorn.