“I was in Dublin,” said Dennis O’Brien. “The point is whether you’re a friend or an enemy.”
“I’m a friend of Ireland,” said Bertram, “but an enemy of those who drench her with blood, and drag her into anarchy.”
“The English,” said O’Brien.
“Irish too, by God!” said Bertram.
O’Brien shrugged his shoulders, and said something in a low voice about the right to liberty.
Susan threw her cigarette in the fire and put her arm round Bertram’s neck.
“Brother o’ mine! It’s no time for argument about Irish liberty or English tyranny. Don’t you understand? Dennis is my husband and his life’s in danger. You must hide him here, for my sake!”
Bertram thought hard and rapidly. Susan’s words called to his chivalry. She was this man’s wife. And it was not easy to turn a hunted man from his door, anyway. But what about Joyce? In hiding O’Brien he might drag her name in, and her father’s name.—‘The Earl of Ottery’s daughter shelters an Irish rebel.’ The newspapers would make a fuss of that! And his own father’s name? Michael Pollard, K.C., who defended the policy of reprisals! A family scandal all round, and damnably dangerous!
“Can’t you find another place?” he asked Susan, weakly.
Susan laughed.