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“Mrs. O’Grady hadn’t time to clean the fireplace to-day,” she said. “She’ll do it to-morrow. I’ve had the walls brushed down. Well,” she next said regretfully, “I mustn’t disturb you. Let me know if you want anything.”

She got as far as the door, then she burst out—

“Look at what the blackguards are doing to the Lord Mayor of Cork! What do you think now of Lloyd George and Hamar Greenwood and their lie factory, starving all those splendid young Irishmen to death in Brixton and in Cork? What must decent Englishmen think?”

I quailed under her eye.

“It’s deliberate, cold-blooded murder. I was a loyalist before 1916. The murder of those splendid young fellows by the British Government after the rebellion caused a thrill of horror through the whole country. Why can’t England leave Ireland alone?”

“It’s a long story,” said Himself.

“A long story! It’s shameful! And all the talk of the rights of small nations.” She quieted a little, and said, “We must have some little talks in the evening. I’ll get Father Murphy to come round. He’s just had Father O’Hara from Cork staying with him, and he’ll be able to give us a little of the truth of what’s going on. Now I must say good-bye.”