Doyle.  Never you mind my temper:  it’s not meant for you, as you ought to know by this time. [He sits down again, a little ashamed of his petulance; reflects a moment bitterly; then bursts out] I have an instinct against going back to Ireland:  an instinct so strong that I’d rather go with you to the South Pole than to Rosscullen.

Broadbent.  What!  Here you are, belonging to a nation with the strongest patriotism! the most inveterate homing instinct in the world! and you pretend you’d rather go anywhere than back to Ireland.  You don’t suppose I believe you, do you?  In your heart—­

Doyle.  Never mind my heart:  an Irishman’s heart is nothing but his imagination.  How many of all those millions that have left Ireland have ever come back or wanted to come back?  But what’s the use of talking to you?  Three verses of twaddle about the Irish emigrant “sitting on the stile, Mary,” or three hours of Irish patriotism in Bermondsey or the Scotland Division of Liverpool, go further with you than all the facts that stare you in the face.  Why, man alive, look at me!  You know the way I nag, and worry, and carp, and cavil, and disparage, and am never satisfied and never quiet, and try the patience of my best friends.

Broadbent.  Oh, come, Larry! do yourself justice.  You’re very amusing and agreeable to strangers.

Doyle.  Yes, to strangers.  Perhaps if I was a bit stiffer to strangers, and a bit easier at home, like an Englishman, I’d be better company for you.

Broadbent.  We get on well enough.  Of course you have the melancholy of the Celtic race—­

Doyle [bounding out of his chair] Good God!!!

Broadbent [slyly]—­and also its habit of using strong language when there’s nothing the matter.

Doyle.  Nothing the matter!  When people talk about the Celtic race, I feel as if I could burn down London.  That sort of rot does more harm than ten Coercion Acts.  Do you suppose a man need be a Celt to feel melancholy in Rosscullen?  Why, man, Ireland was peopled just as England was; and its breed was crossed by just the same invaders.

Broadbent.  True.  All the capable people in Ireland are of English extraction.  It has often struck me as a most remarkable circumstance that the only party in parliament which shows the genuine old English character and spirit is the Irish party.  Look at its independence, its determination, its defiance of bad Governments, its sympathy with oppressed nationalities all the world over!  How English!

Doyle.  Not to mention the solemnity with which it talks old-fashioned nonsense which it knows perfectly well to be a century behind the times.  That’s English, if you like.

Broadbent.  No, Larry, no.  You are thinking of the modern hybrids that now monopolize England.  Hypocrites, humbugs, Germans, Jews, Yankees, foreigners, Park Laners, cosmopolitan riffraff.  Don’t call them English.  They don’t belong to the dear old island, but to their confounded new empire; and by George! they’re worthy of it; and I wish them joy of it.