“When the time comes for us to leave the service we cannot. We are offered rest, we are offered peace; at last has come opportunity for our stretched nerves to recover. But we must continue to be _au courant_ with affairs. So nearly every agent dies in harness. “But, of course, besides receiving payment, an agent pays for this life. He makes payment in several ways. One way is that he finally comes to believe nothing, to trust nobody. He weighs up what his best friend says. And another payment is that the life brings a man in the end to neutral feelings. He is cold sometimes--yes. Wet--yes. Tired--yes. Even a little depressed sometimes. But not elated. Never surprised. “It’s fifteen years since I was surprised.” And then at Hyde Park Corner, the place where I had last seen 47, he was gone, and I was left to stroll home alone. My wife was still up. “I’ve just met our other friend,” I said, shutting the door. “What does he say?” “He’s going over in a day or two. He was at the top of his form.” Then I gave out what I had been given, and she listened with her eyes jumping out of her head. Her mind, and accordingly my mind, was made up half-way through. At the end she jerked upright in the armchair and cried-- “But let’s go and see for ourselves, and I’ll try and get my ‘Baby Exchange’ going. Let’s.” “By all means.” This was very late at night or very early in the morning. Now it is time to ask if the world possesses one true history book. History can only be approximate, for events are without limit, and man is limited. Each observer of Irish affairs has been watching Ireland through the windows of his temperament and his opportunities, and where a man has seen this thing, his neighbour has seen another. Humbly, then, we put down what we have to tell, endeavouring to fill these pages with the spirit of the times rather than with a tedious list of events. CHAPTER II WE CROSS TO DUBLIN “Any firearms?” A lamp flashed on a pair of khaki legs. “Any firearms?” asked the man with the lamp again in a feeble attempt at cheerfulness. I was trying to be cheerful too; but it was the middle of the night and very cold, and I had lost a husband. A soft cloud of steam rose from the engine of the train that had just disgorged me. All along the platform were weary passengers and flashing lamps. A silk stocking slid to the platform from my suitcase. The stooping Customs man bumped his finger on a darning-needle and muttered under his breath. A little farther along the platform I could see a woman burdened with a baby struggling to shut an over full portmanteau. “Why are you going to Ireland?” grumbled the man with the lamp. “Last place to live in. Right. Next, please. One minute, Paddy. What’s in that parcel?” A youth who was trying to slip through the crowd stood sullenly. I was jostled up a gangway by the moving people, still clutching my keys.