Doyle.  You mean that an Englishman would get engaged to another woman and return Nora her letters and presents with a letter to say he was unworthy of her and wished her every happiness?

Broadbent.  Well, even that would set the poor girl’s mind at rest.

Doyle.  Would it?  I wonder!  One thing I can tell you; and that is that Nora would wait until she died of old age sooner than ask my intentions or condescend to hint at the possibility of my having any.  You don’t know what Irish pride is.  England may have knocked a good deal of it out of me; but she’s never been in England; and if I had to choose between wounding that delicacy in her and hitting her in the face, I’d hit her in the face without a moment’s hesitation.

Broadbent [who has been nursing his knee and reflecting, apparently rather agreeably].  You know, all this sounds rather interesting.  There’s the Irish charm about it.  That’s the worst of you:  the Irish charm doesn’t exist for you.

Doyle.  Oh yes it does.  But it’s the charm of a dream.  Live in contact with dreams and you will get something of their charm:  live in contact with facts and you will get something of their brutality.  I wish I could find a country to live in where the facts were not brutal and the dreams not unreal.

Broadbent [changing his attitude and responding to Doyle’s earnestness with deep conviction:  his elbows on the table and his hands clenched].  Don’t despair, Larry, old boy:  things may look black; but there will be a great change after the next election.

Doyle [jumping up].  Oh get out, you idiot!

Broadbent [rising also, not a bit snubbed].  Ha! ha! you may laugh; but we shall see.  However, don’t let us argue about that.  Come now! you ask my advice about Miss Reilly?

Doyle [reddening].  No I don’t.  Damn your advice! [Softening] Let’s have it, all the same.

Broadbent.  Well, everything you tell me about her impresses me favorably.  She seems to have the feelings of a lady; and though we must face the fact that in England her income would hardly maintain her in the lower middle class—­

Doyle [interrupting].  Now look here, Tom.  That reminds me.  When you go to Ireland, just drop talking about the middle class and bragging of belonging to it.  In Ireland you’re either a gentleman or you’re not.  If you want to be particularly offensive to Nora, you can call her a Papist; but if you call her a middle-class woman, Heaven help you!

Broadbent [irrepressible].  Never fear.  You’re all descended from the ancient kings:  I know that. [Complacently] I’m not so tactless as you think, my boy. [Earnest again] I expect to find Miss Reilly a perfect lady; and I strongly advise you to come and have another look at her before you make up your mind about her.  By the way, have you a photograph of her?