She returned to her chair and faced us. Himself’s hand strayed to a book, and he picked it up.
“The Evolution of Sinn Fein?” he read. “You’re interested in Sinn Fein, Mrs. Slaney?”
“I am,” she said emphatically. “Everybody in Ireland is since we were terrorised by the English army. I’m a Sinn Feiner, and I have been for some time. It is monstrous what England is doing! Monstrous! Ireland will never forget it. Look at all those young fellows that England is murdering. The flower of Ireland! Look at what she’s doing to-day!”
“I’m English, as much as I’m anything else,” said Himself slowly. “I’m full-blooded British anyway. But I’m interested in Sinn Fein, genuinely interested.”
“Then you’ll see things here that will make your blood boil. Thank God, my son didn’t die in France! How England clamoured about the rights of small nations.”
“It’s a great pity that there is this feeling,” said Himself lamely. “After all, the British Isles are one geographically. They should be friends.”
Mrs. Slaney snorted.
“Friends! Ireland can never be friendly. Ireland can’t forget. Look how she has been treated. Look what Cromwell did. Look at last Thursday. They arrest the Lord Mayor of Cork—a perfectly innocent man. I suppose they’ll treat him the same as Lord Mayor MacCurtain.”
“I thought the papers said the Lord Mayor was presiding over an illegal court, and that a stolen police cypher was found, and—oh, lots of other things,” I ventured.
“Nonsense! That’s Hamar Greenwood and his lie factory. I was talking to Father Murphy, who tells me the Lord Mayor is a perfectly innocent man. And, look, only the other night those soldiers ran amok on the quays. They’re here to terrorise the citizens. But you want to see the rooms?”