Abstract
A Dublin maker of beautiful stained glass brought to my house last night a sixteen-year-old English girl with a face of still intensity, her black plaited hair falling between her shoulders.1 He laid a large portfolio on a table in the middle of the room, but as I had already refused to write that preface for her drawings I carried the portfolio to a table in a distant corner. Those present were a Free State officer, a distinguished dramatist, a country gentleman with imperfect sight who has the history of modern Italy read to him for five hours a day because he thinks it is like that of modern Ireland.2 We arranged our talk unconsciously that it might contain incidents to amuse a young girl fresh from Grimm’s goblins and Treasure Island.3 Somebody told stories of our civil war, I pointed to the bullet hole in the study door and hinted at all the Free State officer could tell if he were not silent and gloomy. Presently he said Republicans were bound to win the general election in September, and do all kinds of horrible things, and in a minute we had exchanged civil war for politics. But I am old and impatient and have listened to one theme or the other most Monday evenings these five years.4KeywordsGeneral ElectionSingle WordYoung GirlIndian WomanJudgment AuthorityThese keywords were added by machine and not by the authors. This process is experimental and the keywords may be updated as the learning algorithm improves.
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