Broadbent.  Not an Irishman! [He is so amazed by the statement that he straightens himself and brings the stool bolt upright].

Doyle.  Born in Glasgow.  Never was in Ireland in his life.  I know all about him.

Broadbent.  But he spoke—­he behaved just like an Irishman.

Doyle.  Like an Irishman!!  Is it possible that you don’t know that all this top-o-the-morning and broth-of-a-boy and more-power-to-your-elbow business is as peculiar to England as the Albert Hall concerts of Irish music are?  No Irishman ever talks like that in Ireland, or ever did, or ever will.  But when a thoroughly worthless Irishman comes to England, and finds the whole place full of romantic duffers like you, who will let him loaf and drink and sponge and brag as long as he flatters your sense of moral superiority by playing the fool and degrading himself and his country, he soon learns the antics that take you in.  He picks them up at the theatre or the music hall.  Haffigan learnt the rudiments from his father, who came from my part of Ireland.  I knew his uncles, Matt and Andy Haffigan of Rosscullen.

Broadbent [still incredulous].  But his brogue!

Doyle.  His brogue!  A fat lot you know about brogues!  I’ve heard you call a Dublin accent that you could hang your hat on, a brogue.  Heaven help you! you don’t know the difference between Connemara and Rathmines. [With violent irritation] Oh, damn Tim Haffigan!  Let’s drop the subject:  he’s not worth wrangling about.

Broadbent.  What’s wrong with you today, Larry?  Why are you so bitter?

Doyle looks at him perplexedly; comes slowly to the writing table; and sits down at the end next the fireplace before replying.

Doyle.  Well:  your letter completely upset me, for one thing.

Broadbent.  Why?

Larry.  Your foreclosing this Rosscullen mortgage and turning poor Nick Lestrange out of house and home has rather taken me aback; for I liked the old rascal when I was a boy and had the run of his park to play in.  I was brought up on the property.

Broadbent.  But he wouldn’t pay the interest.  I had to foreclose on behalf of the Syndicate.  So now I’m off to Rosscullen to look after the property myself. [He sits down at the writing table opposite Larry, and adds, casually, but with an anxious glance at his partner] You’re coming with me, of course?

Doyle [rising nervously and recommencing his restless movements].  That’s it.  That’s what I dread.  That’s what has upset me.

Broadbent.  But don’t you want to see your country again after 18 years absence? to see your people, to be in the old home again?  To—­

Doyle [interrupting him very impatiently].  Yes, yes:  I know all that as well as you do.

Broadbent.  Oh well, of course [with a shrug] if you take it in that way, I’m sorry.