It was all very rich and fine, but frightfully dull to a child who had come with such high expectations. They were back in the first parlour. The refreshments had disappeared and there was a green plush cloth on the table. Ethel and Alma had gone to Sunday School, where both took classes, and Laura had been given a book with views of Ramsgate to look at. The window blinds were drawn, for the sun was hot on the panes, and the room smelt of best clothes, furniture polish, and potpourri. Edmund was already asleep on his mother’s knee and Laura was getting drowsy when the soft buzz of grown-up conversation which had been going on over her head was broken by sharp cries of “Ireland,” “Home Rule”, “Gladstone says…” “Lord Hartington says…” “Joey Chamberlain says…” The two men had got on to the subject which her mother had dreaded.

“They’re subjects of Queen Victoria, ain’t they, same as we are,” her uncle insisted. “Well, then, let ‘em behave as such and be thankful to have a decent Government over ‘em. Nice thing they’d make of governing themselves, and they no better than a lot of drunken savages.”

“How’d you like it if a foreign country invaded, England…” her father began.

“I’d like to see ‘em try it,” interposed her uncle.

“… invaded England and shed blood like water and burnt down your house and workshops and interfered with your religion. You’d want to get rid of ‘em, I’ll bet, and get back your independence.”

“Well, we did conquer ‘em, didn’t we? So let ‘em learn who’s their masters, I say, and if they won’t toe the line, let our soldiers go over and make them.”

“How many Irishmen have you ever known personally?”

“f I’d only known one it’d be one too many; but, as a matter of fact, I’ve had several working for me at different times. Then there was Colonel Dimmock at Bradley, went bankrupt and let me in for more money than you’re ever likely to earn.”

“Now, Bob!” pleaded Laura’s mother.

“Now, James!” urged her aunt. “You’re not at a meeting now, but at home, and it’s Sunday. What’s Ireland to either of you. You’ve never been there and are never likely to, so have done with your arguing.”

Both men laughed a little and seemed ashamed of their vehemence, but her uncle could not forbear a parting shot. “Tell you what,” he said, probably meaning it for a joke. “In my opinion, the best way to settle the question would be to send over a shipload of whisky one day and a shipload of guns the next and they’d all get raving drunk and kill one another and save us the trouble.”