as whisky and emigration
tickets. I also remembered my father's opinion of Gorman, old Dan
Gorman, the father of the man beside me. He was "one of the worst
blackguards in the county, mixed up with every kind of League and
devilment." Those were the days when the land agitation was at its
height and Irish gentlemen--they were fighting for their existence as a
class--felt rather strongly about the leaders of the people.

Of any younger Gorman I had no recollection whatever. Nor did I at that
moment, or for some time afterwards, connect the son of the ruffianly
old publican with the journalist and politician of whom I had heard a
good deal.

"Funny thing," he said, "running into you like this. Let's have a drink
of some sort."

He snapped his fingers to attract the attention of the steward.

I am not, I fear, thoroughly modernised. Though I like American social
life I have never been able to accept the theory of the wickedness
of class distinctions. As a political system democracy seems to me
extraordinarily foolish, but I would not go out of my way to protest
against it. My servant is, so far as I am concerned, welcome to as many
votes as he can get. I would very gladly make mine over to him if I
could. I do not suppose that it matters much in reality whether laws
are made by dukes or cornerboys, but I like, as far as possible, to
associate with gentlemen in private life. I was not prepared to sit
drinking with the son of old Dan Gorman if I could help it.

I intended to say so, as politely as such a thing can be said. The man's
face made me pause. He was looking at me with a curious smile, half
innocent, half whimsical. His eyes expressed friendliness of a perfectly
simple, unaffected kind. I realised that he was not a snob, that he was
not trying to push himself on me for the sake of my position and title,
the position of a disinherited Irish landlord and a title which, for all
any one could tell by hearing it, might be the reward of a successful
provincial doctor. I realised also, with an uncomfortable shiver, that
he understood my feeling and was slightly amused at it. It struck me
suddenly that I, and not Gorman, was the snob.

The steward stood at his elbow.

"Whisky and soda?" said Gorman. "We are still in English waters. Or
shall I say cocktails, as we're, on our way to America?"

I am a temperate man and have made it a rule not to drink before
luncheon. But I was so much ashamed of my first feeling abou