you seemed surprised that night to find he was not walking poetically
by the sea all the time, and I fear I affected to share your ignorance.
I was not so sure then as I am now."

"Sure of what?" demanded the other.

"To begin with," said Ashe, "I'm sure our friend the poet followed
Vane into the wood that night, for I saw him coming out again."

Paynter leaned forward, suddenly pale with excitement, and struck
the wooden table so that it rattled.

"Mr. Ashe, you're wrong," he cried. "You're a wonderful
man and you're wrong. You've probably got tons of true
convincing evidence, and you're wrong. I know this poet;
I know him as a poet; and that's just what you don't. I know you
think he gave you crooked answers, and seemed to be all smiles
and black looks at once; but you don't understand the type.
I know now why you don't understand the Irish. Sometimes you
think it's soft, and sometimes sly, and sometimes murderous,
and sometimes uncivilized; and all the time it's only civilized;
quivering with the sensitive irony of understanding all that
you don't understand."

"Well," said Ashe shortly, "we'll see who's right."

"We will," cried Cyprian, and rose suddenly from the table.
All the drooping of the aesthete had dropped from him;
his Yankee accent rose high, like a horn of defiance, and there
was nothing about him but the New World.