Our hostess advanced.
“Has any one heard of the Minister of Propaganda lately? I love that man. He’s the only man among you with wit. Tell me, somebody, what is going to happen.”
There was a general shrugging of shoulders as she settled in a chair.
“The British Government will give in.”
“But what of poor Ireland in the meantime?”
“Things have been quiet for a few days,” I ventured.
“An unnatural quiet,” said a second priest. “Something is brewing for the Black-and-Tans. How our boys can gull them!”
People came towards us attracted by our laughter, and an old lady whose name I could not catch, and whom I never saw after that evening, drew into the circle.
“Things are getting worse,” said our hostess. “I can’t go down the street without danger of being run over by armoured cars, and the soldiers just look as if they are going to stand up in the lorries and fire into the crowd.”
“We weren’t talking of Curfew,” said a pallid youth; “but let us, because I want to tell you the story of old Meg.”