“You think,” I said, “that we should be too wise to accept the yoke of Ascher, to barter our freedom for tinned peaches.”
“We’ll get the tinned peaches, too.”
“No, you won’t. If you have civilisation—and that includes a lot of things besides tinned peaches, tobacco for instance, Gorman. If you want a cigar you’ll have to put up with Ascher. But I daresay you’d be better without it. Only I don’t think I’ll live in your Ireland, Gorman.”
We passed away from London in the end, got out beyond the last tentative reachings of the speculative builder, into country lane-ways. There were hedges covered with hawthorn, and the scent of it reached us as we rushed past. Gorman threw away a half-smoked cigar. Perhaps he wanted to enjoy the country smells. Perhaps he was preparing himself for life in the new Ireland which he hoped to bring into being.
We reached the barn in which Tim Gorman lived, at about nine o’clock. He was waiting for us, dressed in his best clothes. I knew they were his best clothes because they were creased all over in wrong places, showing that they had been packed away tightly in some receptacle too small to hold them. It is only holiday clothes which are treated in this way. Besides putting on this suit, Tim had paid us the compliment of washing his face and hands for the first time, I imagine, for many days.
He shook hands with me shyly, and greeted his brother with obvious nervousness.
“I have everything ready,” he said, “quite ready. But I can’t promise—— You may be disappointed—— I’ve had endless difficulties—— If you will allow me to explain——”
“Not a bit of good explaining to us,” said Gorman. “All we’re capable of judging is the results.”
Tim sighed and led us into the barn.
It was a large, bare room, ventilated—no one could say it was lit—by three or four unglazed openings in the wall. These Tim blocked with hay so as to exclude the lingering twilight of the summer evening.