“I know of a policeman in Limerick,” the woman went on, “who beats every third woman he meets. He kicked a crippled child from one side of the road to the other in one kick. And then the English people are surprised that the Irish people hold out. The Irish are the most peace-loving and spiritual people in the world, and they must overcome wrong.” “We know the men who do these things,” said the man beside me. “Twenty years will make no difference. We’ll get them.” “Well, I’m all for peace,” I declared. “But then I’m not Irish.” He laughed. “Do you think we’d have got very far if we hadn’t let a little blood?” “I think it might have taken longer to wake up the Government; but it could have been done. Women got suffrage; no blood was shed. The woman’s war was the only clean one waged, I think. Why not be satisfied now with the bloodshed you’ve had, and try something else?” “No; the lion’s tail must be twisted. It will be twisted before we’ve finished. Ireland’s only a pin point; but she’s pushing right into the heart of the Empire.” There was a pause, and a snatch of conversation came from somewhere else. “I saw Mrs.”--I couldn’t catch the name--“yesterday,” a woman said. “She’s working very hard, and, of course, her husband will kill himself one day.” “Who is that?” I asked. “She’s an American; but she always calls the Irish ‘my own dear people.’ Her husband is an Englishman; but he has an Irish soul.” Our hostess advanced. “Has any one heard of the Minister of Propaganda lately? I love that man. He’s the only man among you with wit. Tell me, somebody, what is going to happen.” There was a general shrugging of shoulders as she settled in a chair. “The British Government will give in.” “But what of poor Ireland in the meantime?” “Things have been quiet for a few days,” I ventured. “An unnatural quiet,” said a second priest. “Something is brewing for the Black-and-Tans. How our boys can gull them!” People came towards us attracted by our laughter, and an old lady whose name I could not catch, and whom I never saw after that evening, drew into the circle. “Things are getting worse,” said our hostess. “I can’t go down the street without danger of being run over by armoured cars, and the soldiers just look as if they are going to stand up in the lorries and fire into the crowd.” “We weren’t talking of Curfew,” said a pallid youth; “but let us, because I want to tell you the story of old Meg.” “Old Meg? Who’s old Meg?” our hostess demanded. “You must know her. The dirtiest beggar woman in Dublin.”