we had finished.
Ukridge had been terrible. When the professor began a story--his
stories would have been the better for a little more briskness and
condensation--Ukridge interrupted him before he had got halfway
through, without a word of apology, and began some anecdote of his
own. He disagreed with nearly every opinion he expressed. It is true
that he did it all in such a perfectly friendly way, and was obviously
so innocent of any intention of giving offense, that another man might
have overlooked the matter. But the professor, robbed of his good
dinner, was at the stage when he had to attack somebody. Every moment
I had been expecting the storm to burst.

It burst after dinner.

We were strolling in the garden when some demon urged Ukridge, apropos
of the professor's mention of Dublin, to start upon the Irish
question. My heart stood still.

Ukridge had boomed forth some very positive opinions of his own on the
subject of Ireland before I could get near enough to him to stop him.
When I did, I suppose I must have whispered louder than I had
intended, for the professor heard my words, and they acted as the
match to the powder.

"He's touchy on the Irish question, is he?" he thundered. "Drop it, is
it? And why? Why, sir? I'm one of the best-tempered men that ever came
from Ireland, let me tell you, and I will not stay here to be insulted
by the insinuation that I cannot discuss Irish affairs as calmly as
anyone."

"But, professor--"

"Take your hand off my arm, Mr. Garnet. I will not be treated like a
child. I am as competent to discuss the affairs of Ireland without
heat as any man, let me tell you."

"Father--"

"And let me tell you, Mr. Ukridge, that I consider your opinions
poisonous. Poisonous, sir. And you know nothing whatever about the
subject, sir. I don't wish to see you or to speak to you again.
Understand that, sir. Our acquaintance began to-day, and it will
cease to-day. Good night to you. Come, Phyllis, me dear. Mrs. Ukridge,
good night."

Mr. Chase, when he spoke of four-point-seven guns, had known what he
was talking about.

DIES IRAE

IX

Why is it, I wonder, that stories of Retribution calling at the wrong
address strike us as funny instead of pathetic? I myself had been
amused by them many a time. In a book which I had just read, a shop
woman, being vexed with an omnibus conductor, had thrown a
superannuated orange at him. It had found its billet not on him, but
on a per