DOYLE. Would it? I wonder! One thing I can tell you; and that is
that Nora would wait until she died of old age sooner than ask my
intentions or condescend to hint at the possibility of my having
any. You don't know what Irish pride is. England may have knocked
a good deal of it out of me; but she's never been in England; and
if I had to choose between wounding that delicacy in her and
hitting her in the face, I'd hit her in the face without a
moment's hesitation.

BROADBENT [who has been nursing his knee and reflecting,
apparently rather agreeably]. You know, all this sounds rather
interesting. There's the Irish charm about it. That's the worst
of you: the Irish charm doesn't exist for you.

DOYLE. Oh yes it does. But it's the charm of a dream. Live in
contact with dreams and you will get something of their charm:
live in contact with facts and you will get something of their
brutality. I wish I could find a country to live in where the
facts were not brutal and the dreams not unreal.

BROADBENT [changing his attitude and responding to Doyle's
earnestness with deep conviction: his elbows on the table and his
hands clenched]. Don't despair, Larry, old boy: things may look
black; but there will be a great change after the next election.

DOYLE [jumping up]. Oh get out, you idiot!

BROADBENT [rising also, not a bit snubbed]. Ha! ha! you may
laugh; but we shall see. However, don't let us argue about that.