“It’s the fault of your Lloyd George and his government.  It’s the fault of your Socialists and sentimentalists.  You’ve made the mischief and you have to deal with it.”

“Yes.  But do you really figure to yourself what a civil war may mean for the empire?  Surely there are other things in the world besides this quarrel between the ‘loyalists’ of Ulster and the Liberal government; there are other interests in this big empire than party advantages?  Yon think you are going to frighten this Home Rule government into some ridiculous sort of collapse that will bring in the Tories at the next election.  Well, suppose you don’t manage that.  Suppose instead that you really do contrive to bring about a civil war.  Very few people here or in Ireland want it—­I was over there not a month ago—­but when men have loaded guns in their hands they sometimes go off.  And then people see red.  Few people realise what an incurable sore opens when fighting begins.  Suppose part of the army revolts and we get some extraordinary and demoralising fighting over there.  India watches these things.  Bengal may imitate Ireland.  At that distance rebellion and treason are rebellion and treason whether they are coloured orange or green.  And then suppose the Germans see fit to attack us!”

Lady Frensham had a woman’s elusiveness.  “Your Redmondites would welcome them with open arms.”

“It isn’t the Redmondites who invite them now, anyhow,” said Mr. Britling, springing his mine.  “The other day one of your ‘loyalists,’ Andrews, was talking in the Morning Post of preferring conquest by Germany to Home Rule; Craig has been at the same game; Major Crawford, the man who ran the German Mausers last April, boasted that he would transfer his allegiance to the German Emperor rather than see Redmond in power.”

“Rhetoric!” said Lady Frensham.  “Rhetoric!”

“But one of your Ulster papers has openly boasted that arrangements have been made for a ‘powerful Continental monarch’ to help an Ulster rebellion.”

“Which paper?” snatched Lady Frensham.

Mr. Britling hesitated.

Mr. Philbert supplied the name.  “I saw it.  It was the Irish Churchman.”

“You two have got your case up very well,” said Lady Frensham.  “I didn’t know Mr. Britling was a party man.”

“The Nationalists have been circulating copies,” said Philbert.  “Naturally.”

“They make it look worse than mere newspaper talk and speeches,” Mr. Britling pressed.  “Carson, it seems, was lunching with the German Emperor last autumn.  A fine fuss you’d make if Redmond did that.  All this gun-running, too, is German gun-running.”

“What does it matter if it is?” said Lady Frensham, allowing a belligerent eye to rest for the first time on Philbert.  “You drove us to it.  One thing we are resolved upon at any cost.  Johnny Redmond may rule England if he likes; he shan’t rule Ireland....”