no
right to complain. The friendship which Gorman forced on me has lasted
eighteen months and shows no sign yet of wearing thin.

He caught me in the smoking room. I had settled down quietly in a
comfortable chair, and was wondering, as I always do in that smoking
room, at the grain of the wood in the panel above the fireplace. There
was no one else in the room except a steward who hovered near the door
which leads to the bar. Experience has taught me that the smoking room,
the most populous part of the ship during the voyage, is generally empty
during the two hours before the start. I thought I should have the place
to myself. I was half way through my cigar and had failed to decide
whether the panel is a fake or a natural curiosity when Gorman entered.
He is a big man and fat. He is clean shaved and has bushy grey eyebrows.
Heavy rolls of skin hang down from his jaws. He wears an unusually large
gold signet ring. His appearance is not attractive. He sat down beside
me and addressed me at once.

"Sir James Digby?" he said.

That is my name. I admitted it by nodding.

"I was glancing over the passenger list," he said, "and saw you were on
board. The purser told me you were up here somewhere. My name's Gorman,
Michael Gorman."

The name gave me no information beyond the fact that the speaker was an
Irishman. There must be several thousand Gormans in Ireland and I could
not remember that I was acquainted with any one of them. I nodded again.

"I don't suppose you remember me," said Gorman, "but you used to see me
pretty frequently once, about twenty-five years ago. My father kept the
only shop in Curraghbeg, and you used to come in and buy sweets, a penny
worth at a time. You were a small boy then. I was a bit older, fifteen
or sixteen perhaps."

Curraghbeg is a miserable village standing in the middle of the tract
of land which used to be my property. It is close to Curraghbeg House,
where my father kept up such state as befitted an Irish gentleman of his
day. I believe I was born there. If I thought of any place in the world
as home I suppose it would be Curraghbeg; but I have no feeling for
the place except a mild dislike. The House is now a nunnery, in better
repair, but almost certainly more gauntly hideous than when I owned
it. The village, I expect, is still as sordid as when I saw it last. I
remembered Gorman's shop, a dirty little public house, where sacks of
flour, tea and sugar candy were sold, as well