genial. He had tried to talk. He had told stories. And when he began
one--his stories would have been the better for a little more
briskness and condensation--Ukridge almost invariably interrupted him,
before he had got half way through, without a word of apology, and
started on some anecdote of his own. He furthermore disagreed with
nearly every opinion the professor 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 offence, that another man--or the same man
at a better meal--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. I had been expecting it momentarily, but my heart seemed to
stand still when it actually arrived.

Ukridge probably knew less about the Irish question than any male
adult in the kingdom, but he had boomed forth some very positive
opinions of his own on the subject before I could get near enough to
him to whisper a warning. When I did, I suppose I must have whispered
louder than I had intended, for the professor heard me, and my words
acted as the match to the powder.

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