"And you're a Beauty. So there we are, cast for opposite parts in the
same play. Queer how it works out! Looks like the hand of Providence.
Don't say what you want to say, or I shall be afraid you've been badly
brought up. North of Ireland, I understand. We're South. Dierdre's a
Sinn Feiner. You needn't expect mercy from her, unless I keep her down
with a strong hand--the Hidden Hand. She hates you Northerners about ten
times worse than she hates the Huns. Now you look as if you thought her
name _wasn't_ Dierdre! It is, because she took it. She takes a lot of
things, when I've showed her how. For instance, photographs. She has
several snapshots of Jim Beckett and me together. I have some of him and
her. They're pretty strong cards (I don't mean a pun!) if we decide to
use them. Don't you agree?"
"I neither agree nor disagree," I said, "for I understand you no better
now than when you began."
"You're like Mr. Justice What's-his-name, who's so innocent he never
heard of the race course. Well, I must adapt myself to your child-like
intelligence! I'll go back a bit to an earlier chapter in my career,
the way novels and cinemas do, after they've given the public a good,
bright opening. It was true, what I said about my voice. I've lost
everything but my middle register. I had a fortune in my throat. At
present I've got nothing but a warble fit for a small drawing room--and
that, only by careful management. I knew months ago I could never sing
again in opera.
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