Doyle [unmoved by this outburst].  There!  You feel better now, don’t you?

Broadbent [defiantly].  I do.  Much better.

Doyle.  My dear Tom, you only need a touch of the Irish climate to be as big a fool as I am myself.  If all my Irish blood were poured into your veins, you wouldn’t turn a hair of your constitution and character.  Go and marry the most English Englishwoman you can find, and then bring up your son in Rosscullen; and that son’s character will be so like mine and so unlike yours that everybody will accuse me of being his father. [With sudden anguish] Rosscullen! oh, good Lord, Rosscullen!  The dullness! the hopelessness! the ignorance! the bigotry!

Broadbent [matter-of-factly].  The usual thing in the country, Larry.  Just the same here.

Doyle [hastily].  No, no:  the climate is different.  Here, if the life is dull, you can be dull too, and no great harm done. [Going off into a passionate dream] But your wits can’t thicken in that soft moist air, on those white springy roads, in those misty rushes and brown bogs, on those hillsides of granite rocks and magenta heather.  You’ve no such colors in the sky, no such lure in the distances, no such sadness in the evenings.  Oh, the dreaming! the dreaming! the torturing, heartscalding, never satisfying dreaming, dreaming, dreaming, dreaming! [Savagely] No debauchery that ever coarsened and brutalized an Englishman can take the worth and usefulness out of him like that dreaming.  An Irishman’s imagination never lets him alone, never convinces him, never satisfies him; but it makes him that he can’t face reality nor deal with it nor handle it nor conquer it:  he can only sneer at them that do, and [bitterly, at Broadbent] be “agreeable to strangers,” like a good-for-nothing woman on the streets. [Gabbling at Broadbent across the table] It’s all dreaming, all imagination.  He can’t be religious.  The inspired Churchman that teaches him the sanctity of life and the importance of conduct is sent away empty; while the poor village priest that gives him a miracle or a sentimental story of a saint, has cathedrals built for him out of the pennies of the poor.  He can’t be intelligently political, he dreams of what the Shan Van Vocht said in ninety-eight.  If you want to interest him in Ireland you’ve got to call the unfortunate island Kathleen ni Hoolihan and pretend she’s a little old woman.  It saves thinking.  It saves working.  It saves everything except imagination, imagination, imagination; and imagination’s such a torture that you can’t bear it without whisky. [With fierce shivering self-contempt] At last you get that you can bear nothing real at all:  you’d rather starve than cook a meal; you’d rather go shabby and dirty than set your mind to take care of your clothes and wash yourself; you nag and squabble at home because your wife isn’t an angel, and she despises you because you’re not a hero; and you hate the whole lot round you because