Part 3 (1/2)

”It's quite a good show,” said Gorman.

I tried to think of Ascher at a circus. I failed to picture him, a man educated up to the highest forms of art, gazing in delight while a lady in short petticoats jumps through a hoop from the back of a galloping horse. I had not been at a circus for about thirty years, since my tenth birthday indeed, but I do not believe that the form of entertainment has changed much since then. The clowns' jokes--I judge from my nephew's reports--are certainly the same as they were in my time. But even very great improvements would not make circuses tolerable to really artistic people like Ascher.

”I've got free pa.s.ses for the best seats,” said Gorman.

He had mistaken the cause of my hesitation. I was not thinking of the cost of our evening's amus.e.m.e.nt.

”You journalists,” I said, ”are wonderful. You get into the front row every time without paying, whether it's a coronation or a funeral. How did you manage it this time?”

”My brother Tim is connected with the show. I daresay you don't remember him at Curraghbeg. He was fifteen years younger than me. My father married a second time, you know. Tim is my half-brother.”

I did not remember Gorman himself in Curraghbeg. I could not be expected to remember Tim who must have been still unborn when I left home to join the Army.

”Tim has the brains of our family,” said Gorman. ”His mother was a very clever woman.”

I never heard Gorman say anything worse than that about his step-mother, and yet she certainly treated him very badly.

”You're all clever,” I said. ”Your father drove mine out of the country and deprived him of his property. It took ability to do that. You are a Member of Parliament and a brilliant journalist Timothy--I hardly like to speak of him as Tim--owns a splendid circus.”

”He doesn't own it,” said Gorman.

”Well, runs it,” I said. ”I expect it takes more brains to run a circus than to own one.”

”He doesn't exactly run it,” said Gorman. ”In fact he only takes the money at the door. But he has brains. That's why I want Ascher to meet him. I didn't ask Mrs. Ascher,” he added thoughtfully, ”though she hinted for an invitation, rather made a set at me, in fact.”

”Give her my ticket,” I said. ”I don't mind a bit. I'll buy another for myself in a cheap part of the house, and join you at supper afterwards.

You ought not to disappoint Mrs. Ascher.”

”I don't want Mrs. Ascher this time. She'd be in the way. She's a charming woman, of course, though she does bore me a bit about music and talks of her soul.”

”Good Heavens!” I said. ”You haven't been discussing religion with her, surely. I didn't think you'd do a thing like that, Gorman. You oughtn't to.”

”Never mentioned religion to her in my life. Nothing would induce me to.

For one thing I don't believe she has any.”

”You're a Roman Catholic yourself, aren't you?”

”Well,” said Gorman, ”I don't know that I can say that I am exactly; but I'm not a Protestant or a Jew. But that's nothing to do with it. Mrs.

Ascher doesn't talk about her soul in a religious way. In fact--I don't know if you'll understand, but what she means by a soul is something quite different, not the same sort of soul.”

I understood perfectly. I have met several women of Mrs. Ascher's kind.

They are rather boastful about their souls and even talk of saving or losing them. But they do not mean what one of Gorman's priests would mean, or what my poor father, who was a strongly evangelical Protestant, meant by the phrases.

”We are not accustomed to souls like hers in Ireland. We only go in for the commonplace, old-fas.h.i.+oned sort.”

Gorman smiled.

”She wouldn't be seen with one of them about her,” he said. ”They're vulgar things. Everybody has one.

”Soul or no soul,” I said, ”you ought to invite Mrs. Ascher to your party. Why not do the civil thing?”