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Every morning a flaring poster of the Freeman’s Journal, the most violent organ of the National Press, shouted out some fresh Government atrocity. Yes, signs of the times everywhere, and most eloquent where least was said, as in the public places where never a word of politics was spoken.

But for a day the humblest person could get out of it all. On Howth Head he could wander in solitude. Up Killiney Hill he could climb and feast his eyes on peace.

One afternoon, in the lounge of the Shelbourne Hotel, we were introduced to our acquaintance of the wonderful waistcoats and socks. His clothes were still as perfectly put on; but he seemed less at his ease than usual. Whenever some one came in, he pivoted round, turning the whole of his body in the movement, and every now and then he beat his forehead with a beautiful silk handkerchief.

“Oh, I’m rocky to-day, very rocky,” he declared, swallowing the last of the whiskey. “It’s a terrible place for a man to find himself in. I was in uniform the other day, on the step out there, trying to get inside. Suddenly a dear old lady trotted up to me and grasped me by the hand. ‘Let me thank you,’ she said, ‘thank you in the name of all the loyal women of Ireland, for coming over here to defend us from those murderous Sinn Feiners.’ ‘Yes, madam, that’s all very well, that’s all very nice,’ I answered, trying to get her to let go of my hand; ‘but if I don’t get inside there with this uniform on there’ll be a bit of daylight let into me.’” He mopped his brow, and exclaimed, “Oh, my God, my God!”