Hyacinth began to understand how it was that Mr. Quinn was being hopelessly beaten. This was no struggle between two trade rivals, to be won by the side with the longer purse. Nor was it simply a fight between an independent manufacturer and a firm fed with Government bounties. Mr. Quinn’s rival could count on an unlimited supply of labour at starvation wages, while he had to hire men and women at the market value of their services. He had been sorry for the two girls when they got into the train. Now he felt almost glad that they were leaving Ireland. It appeared that they had certainly chosen the wiser part. He arrived at home dejected, and sat down beside the fire in his room to give himself up to complete despair. He found no hope anywhere. Irish patriotism, so he saw it, was a matter of words and fine phrases. No one really believed in it or would venture anything for it. Politics was a game at which sharpers cheated each other and the people. The leaders were bold only in sordid personal quarrels. The mass of the people were utterly untouched by the idea of nationality, in earnest about nothing but huckstering and petty gains. Over all was the grip of a foreign bureaucracy and a selfish Church tightening slowly, squeezing out the nation’s life, grasping and holding fast its wealth. No man any longer made any demand except to be allowed to earn what would buy whisky enough to fuddle him into temporary forgetfulness of the present misery and the imminent tyranny. The slatternly maid-servant who brought him his meals and made his bed tapped at the door. ‘Please, sir, Jimmy Loughlin’s after coming with a letter from Mr. Quinn, and he’s waiting to know if you’ll go.’ Hyacinth read the note, which asked him to call on his employer that afternoon. ‘Tell him I’ll be there.’ ‘Will you have your dinner before you go? The chops is in the pan below. Or will I keep them till you come back?’ ‘Oh, I’ve time enough. Bring them as soon as they’re cooked, and for goodness’ sake see that the potatoes are properly boiled.’