“Your step-mother’s a wonderful woman,” said Sir Tony, “a regular lady bountiful, by Jove! You wouldn’t believe how rich everybody round here is now, and all through her. I give you my word, Tony, if the whisky was to be got—which, of course, it isn’t now-a-days—there isn’t a man in the place need go to bed sober from one week’s end to another. They could all afford it. And it’s your step-mother who put the money into their pockets. Nobody else would have thought of it. Look here, you’ve heard of this unemployment-pay business, I suppose?”
“I’m conducting an inquiry about it at the present moment.”
“Then I won’t say another word,” said Sir Tony. “But it’s a pity. You’d have enjoyed the story.”
“I needn’t put everything I’m told into my report,” said Captain Corless. “A good deal of what I hear isn’t true.”
“Well, then, you can just consider my story to be an invention,” said Sir Tony.
Captain Corless listened to the story. When it was finished he shook hands with his father.
“Dad,” he said, “I apologise to you. I said—There’s no harm in telling you now that I said you were an old fool when you married the blacksmith’s daughter. I see now that I was wrong. You married the only woman in Ireland who understands how to make the most of the new law. Why, everybody else in your position is cursing this scheme as the ruin of the country, and Lady Corless is the only one who’s tumbled to the idea of using it to make the people happy and contented. She’s a great woman.”
“But don’t tell on us, Tony,” said the old man. “Honour bright, now, don’t tell!”
“My dear Dad, of course not. Anyway, they wouldn’t believe me if I did.”