Hyacinth looked at them curiously. Each bore a prominent label setting forth a name for the garment in large letters surrounded with wreaths of shamrocks. ‘The Colleen Bawn,’ he read, ‘Erin’s Own,’ ‘The Kathleen Mavourneen,’ ‘The Cruiskeen Lawn.’ The appropriateness of this last title was not obvious to the mere Irishman, but the colour of the garment was green, so perhaps there was a connection of thought in the maker’s mind between that and ‘Lawn.’ ‘Cruiskeen’ he may have taken for the name of a place. ‘Are these,’ asked Hyacinth, ‘what you advertise as Irish goods?’ Mr. O’Reilly cleared his throat twice before he replied. ‘They are got up specially for the Irish market.’ In the interests of his employer Hyacinth kept his temper, but the effort was a severe one. ‘These,’ he said, ‘are half cotton. Mine are pure wool. They are really far better value even if they were double the price.’ Mr. O’Reilly shrugged his shoulders. ‘I don’t say they’re not, but I should not sell one of yours for every dozen of the others.’ ‘Try,’ said Hyacinth; ‘give them a fair chance. Tell the people that they will last twice as long. Tell them that they are made in Ireland.’ ‘That would not be the slightest use. They would simply laugh in my face. My customers don’t care a pin where the goods are made. I have never in my life been asked for Irish manufacture.’ ‘Then, why on earth do you stick up those advertisements?’ said Hyacinth, pointing to the ‘Féach Annseo’ which appeared on a hoarding across the street. Mr. O’Reilly was perfectly frank and unashamed. ‘The other drapery house in the town is owned by a Scotchman, and of course it pays more or less to keep on saying that I am Irish. Besides, I mean to stand for the Urban Council in March, and those sort of ads. are useful at an election, even if they are no good for business.’ ‘I’ll tell you what I’ll do,’ said Hyacinth, shirking a discussion on the morality of advertising: ‘I’ll let you have a dozen shawls at cost price, and take back what you can’t sell, if you give me your word to do your best for them.’ Similar discussions followed the display of serges and blankets. It appeared that nice-looking goods could be sent over from England at lower prices. It was vain for Hyacinth to press the fact that his things were better. Mr. O’Reilly admitted as much. ‘But what am I to do? The people don’t want what is good. They want a cheap article which looks well, and they don’t care a pin whether the thing is made in England, Ireland, or America. Take my advice,’ he added as Hyacinth left the shop: ‘get your boss to do inferior lines--cheap, cheap and showy.’