Tim brightened up at the mention of his apparatus.

"Oh, no," he said. "That's all right. In fact I've been able to improve it greatly. You remember the trouble I had with the refraction from the second prism. The adjustment of the angles---- The way the light fell----"

I could not, especially before breakfast, argue about prisms.

"If your machinery's all right," I said, "what's the matter with you?"

"It's this party of Michael's," he said. "I forgot all about it till yesterday afternoon."

"Well, you remembered it then. If you'd forgotten it till this afternoon it would have been a much more serious matter."

"But," said Tim, "Michael told me to get some new clothes. He said he'd pay for them, which was very kind of him. But when I got up to London the shops were shut. I hurried as much as I could, but there were one or two things I had to do before I started. And now I'm afraid Michael will be angry. He said most particularly that I must be well dressed because there are ladies coming."

"Stand up," I said, "and let me have a look at you."

Poor Tim stood up, looking as if he expected me to box his ears. There was no disguising the fact that his costume fell some way short of the standard maintained by Cowes yachtsmen.

Tim surveyed himself with a rueful air. He was certainly aware of the condition of his clothes.

"If I could even have got a ready made suit," he said, "it might have fitted. But I couldn't do that. I didn't get to London till nearly ten o'clock. There was a train at four. I wish now that I'd caught it. It was only a few minutes after three when I remembered about the party and I might have caught that train. But I didn't want to leave just then.

There were some things that I had to do. Perhaps now I'd better not go to the party. Michael will be angry if I don't; but I expect he'll be angrier if I go in these clothes. I think I'd better not go at all."

He looked at me wistfully. He was hoping, I am sure, that I might decide that he was too disreputable to appear.

"No," I said, "you can't get out of it that way. You'll have to come."

"But can I? You know better than I do. I did brush my trousers a lot this morning--really. I brushed them for quite half an hour; but there are some mark----"

He held out his right leg and looked at it hopelessly.

"Stains, I suppose," he said.

"You'd be better," I said, "if you had a tie."

Tim put his hand up to his neck and felt about helplessly.

"I must have forgotten to put it on," he said. "I have one, I know. But it's very hard to remember ties. They are such small things."

"Take one of mine," I said, "and put it on before you forget again."

"Anything else?" said Tim.

"I don't think," I said, "that there's anything else we can do. My clothes wouldn't fit you. I might lend you a pair of boots but I doubt if you'd get them on. I'll tell you what we'll do. We'll get yours cleaned. Take them off."

I do not think that my servant liked cleaning Tim's boots. But he did it and I daresay it was good for him.

I was a little anxious about the meeting between Mrs. Ascher and Tim.

When they parted in New York she was deeply vexed with him and I could not think it likely that a woman as devout as she is would readily forgive a man who had been guilty of blasphemy. On the other hand she had very graciously accepted my invitation to be present when the new invention was shown off. She might, of course, only wish to hear the other Gorman making a speech; but she might have forgotten Tim's offence, or changed her mind about its heinousness. In any case Tim's clothes would make no difference to her. Miss Gibson might think less of him for being shabby. But Mrs. Ascher was quite likely to prefer him in rags. Many people regard unkemptness as a sign of genius; which is, I daresay, the reason why poets seldom wash their necks.

I need not have troubled myself about the matter. Mrs. Ascher took no notice of Tim. She was sitting in the saloon carriage when we reached the station and was surrounded with newspapers. She greeted me with effusion.

"Isn't it glorious?" she said. "Splendid. We have shown them that we too can do daring things, even the sort of things in which they take a special pride. The practical things which the world boasts of, which we artists are not supposed to be able to do at all."

"I haven't seen a paper this morning," I said. "Has any one a.s.sa.s.sinated the Prime Minister?"

"Look!" she said.

She held out one of the newspapers towards me. I did not have to take it in my hand to see the news. I could have read the headlines from the far side of the platform.

"Steam yacht lands guns on Galway Coast. National Volunteers muster to receive Arms. Coastguards Paralysed. Police Helpless. Crushing Reply to Ulster Lawlessness."

That, of course, was a Liberal paper. There was a Unionist paper open on the floor at my feet. Its statement of the facts was almost identical; but its interpretation was different Instead of regarding the incident as a lesson in loyalty to Malcolmson it said:

"Act of Rebellion in Connaught. Civil War Breaks Out."

"In the broad light of day," said Mrs. Ascher, "at noon. Without an attempt at concealment. Now, now at last, Ireland has a.s.serted herself, has shown that the idealism of the artist is a match for the sordid materialism of the worshippers of efficiency."

I looked round for Gorman. I wanted to see how he was taking the news.

He was on the platform, talking seriously, I fear sternly, to Tim; no doubt about his clothes. Ascher was standing near them; but was not, I think, listening to Gorman. He had the air of patient politeness which is common with him on pleasure parties and excursions of all kinds.

"I can't help hoping," I said, "that they haven't got any ammunition. It sounds an unkind thing to say, but--I'm not much of a patriot, I know, but I've just enough love of country in me to dislike the idea of Irishmen shooting each other."

"Oh," said Mrs. Ascher, "there would be no risk of that if--if men like you--the natural leaders--would place yourselves at the head of the people. Think--think----"

I did think. The more I thought the less inclined I felt to agree with Mrs. Ascher. It seemed to me that if I took to paralysing coastguards and reducing policemen to helplessness there would be considerably more risk of shooting than if I stayed quietly in London. The proper leaders of the people--proper though perhaps not natural--are the politicians.

The only risk of real trouble in Ireland rose from the fact that men like Malcolmson--natural leaders--had done what Mrs. Ascher wanted me to do, put themselves at the head of the people. If they had been content to leave the question of Home Rule to the politicians it could have been settled quietly. Gorman, for instance, has an instinct for stopping in time. Malcolm-son and men like him confuse games with real affairs.

I might turn out to be just as bad as Malcolmson if I took to placing myself at the head of the people. Besides I do not like the people.

Gorman came in with Miss Gibson and I was introduced to her. She seemed a nice, quiet little girl, and smiled rather shyly as we shook hands.

She sat down beside Mrs. Ascher and refused the cigarette which was offered her. She did not in the least correspond to my idea of what a leading lady in a popular play should be. However I had not much opportunity just then of forming an opinion of her. Gorman, having settled the two ladies, took Ascher and me to the far end of the carriage. The train started.

"That's a d.a.m.ned silly performance," said Gorman, "landing those guns in Galway."

"I should have thought," I said, "that you'd have been pleased. You were talking to me the other day about the necessity for pulling off some coup of a striking and theatrical kind by way of diverting the sympathy of the English people from Ulster."

"But this," said Gorman, "is a totally different thing. I happen to know what I'm talking about. The fellows who've got these guns are wild, irresponsible, unpractical fools. They've been giving us trouble for years, far more trouble than all the Unionist party put together.

They don't understand politics in the least. They've no sense. They're like--like----" he looked round for some comparison, "in some ways they're rather like Tim."

"Dreamers," I said.

"Exactly," said Gorman. "They ought to be writing poetry."

"Lofty souls," I said, "idealists. Just exactly what Mrs. Ascher thinks you are."

"Take the case of Tim," said Gorman. "You'll hardly believe it but--just look at his clothes, will you?"

Tim was standing by himself in the middle of the carriage. He looked forlorn. He was too shy, I imagine, to sit down beside Mrs. Ascher or Miss Gibson, and too much afraid of his brother to join our group. We had every opportunity of studying his clothes.