Doyle.  What did you think?

Broadbent.  Well, a moment ago I caught a name which is new to me:  a Miss Nora Reilly, I think. [Doyle stops dead and stares at him with something like awe].  I don’t wish to be impertinent, as you know, Larry; but are you sure she has nothing to do with your reluctance to come to Ireland with me?

Doyle [sitting down again, vanquished].  Thomas Broadbent:  I surrender.  The poor silly-clever Irishman takes off his hat to God’s Englishman.  The man who could in all seriousness make that recent remark of yours about Home Rule and Gladstone must be simply the champion idiot of all the world.  Yet the man who could in the very next sentence sweep away all my special pleading and go straight to the heart of my motives must be a man of genius.  But that the idiot and the genius should be the same man! how is that possible? [Springing to his feet] By Jove, I see it all now.  I’ll write an article about it, and send it to Nature.

Broadbent [staring at him].  What on earth—­

Doyle.  It’s quite simple.  You know that a
caterpillar—­

Broadbent.  A caterpillar!!!

Doyle.  Yes, a caterpillar.  Now give your mind to what I am going to say; for it’s a new and important scientific theory of the English national character.  A caterpillar—­

Broadbent.  Look here, Larry:  don’t be an ass.

Doyle [insisting].  I say a caterpillar and I mean a caterpillar.  You’ll understand presently.  A caterpillar [Broadbent mutters a slight protest, but does not press it] when it gets into a tree, instinctively makes itself look exactly like a leaf; so that both its enemies and its prey may mistake it for one and think it not worth bothering about.

Broadbent.  What’s that got to do with our English national character?

Doyle.  I’ll tell you.  The world is as full of fools as a tree is full of leaves.  Well, the Englishman does what the caterpillar does.  He instinctively makes himself look like a fool, and eats up all the real fools at his ease while his enemies let him alone and laugh at him for being a fool like the rest.  Oh, nature is cunning, cunning! [He sits down, lost in contemplation of his word-picture].

Broadbent [with hearty admiration].  Now you know, Larry, that would never have occurred to me.  You Irish people are amazingly clever.  Of course it’s all tommy rot; but it’s so brilliant, you know!  How the dickens do you think of such things!  You really must write an article about it:  they’ll pay you something for it.  If Nature won’t have it, I can get it into Engineering for you:  I know the editor.

Doyle.  Let’s get back to business.  I’d better tell you about Nora Reilly.

Broadbent.  No:  never mind.  I shouldn’t have alluded to her.

Doyle.  I’d rather.  Nora has a fortune.