women I have acquired; it was the desire to please women that gave me whatever power I possess; I was as soft as wax, and in the fingers of desire was modified and moulded.  You did not know me when I was a boy—­I was hideous.  It seemed to me impossible that women could love men.  Women seemed to me so beautiful and desirable, men so hideous and revolting.  Could they touch us without a revulsion of feeling?  Could they really desire us?  That is why I could not bear to give women money, nor a present of any kind—­no, not even a flower.  If I did all my pleasure was gone; I could not help thinking it was for what they got out of me that they liked me.  I longed to penetrate the mystery of women’s life.  It seemed to me cruel that the differences between the sexes should never be allowed to dwindle, but should be strictly maintained through all the observances of life.  There were beautiful beings walking by us of whom we knew nothing—­irreparably separated from us.  I wanted to be with this sex as a shadow is with its object.”

“You didn’t find many opportunities of gratifying your tastes in Cashel?”

“No, indeed!  Of course the women about the town were not to be thought of.”  Unpleasant memories seemed to check his flow of words.

Without noticing his embarrassment, Frank said—­

“After France it must have been a horrible change to come to Ireland.  How old were you?”

“About fourteen.  I could not endure the place.  Every day was so appallingly like the last.  There was nothing for me to do but to dream; I dreamed of everything.  I longed to get alone and let my fancy wander—­weaving tales of which I was the hero, building castles of which I was the lord.”

“I remember always hearing of your riding and shooting.  No one knew of your literary tastes.  I don’t mind telling you that Mount Rorke often suspected you of being a bit of a poacher.”

Mike laughed.

“I believe I have knocked down a pheasant or two.  I was an odd mixture—­half a man of action, half a man of dreams.  My position in Cashel was unbearable.  My mother was a lady; my father—­you know how he had let himself down.  You cannot imagine the yearnings of a poor boy; you were brought up in all elegance and refinement.  That beautiful park!  On afternoons I used to walk there, and I remember the very moments I passed under the foliage of the great beeches and lay down to dream.  I used to wander to the outskirts of the wood as near as I dared to the pleasure-grounds, and looking on the towers strove to imagine the life there.  The bitterest curses lie in the hearts of young men who, understanding refinement and elegance, see it for ever out of their reach.  I used to watch the parade of dresses passing on the summer lawns between the firs and flowering trees.  What graceful and noble words were spoken!—­and that man walking into the poetry of the laburnum gold, did he put his arm about her?  And I wondered what silken ankles moved beneath her skirts.  My brain was on fire, and I was crazed; I thought I should never hold a lady in my arms.  A lady! all the delicacy of silk and lace, high-heeled shoes, and the scent and colour of hair that a coiffeur has braided.”