hat if we did give up everything we had to other people, they
wouldn't very likely know what to do with it. She asked if we were so
fond of work-people, why we didn't go and live among them, and expressed
the inflexible persuasion that if we HAD socialism, everything would
be just the same again in ten years' time. She also threw upon us the
imputation of ingratitude for a beautiful world by saying that so far as
she was concerned she didn't want to upset everything. She was contented
with things as they were, thank you.

The discussion led in some way that I don't in the least recall now, and
possibly by abrupt transitions, to a croquet foursome in which Margaret
involved the curate without involving herself, and then stood beside me
on the edge of the lawn while the others played. We watched silently for
a moment.

"I HATE that sort of view," she said suddenly in a confidential
undertone, with her delicate pink flush returning.

"It's want of imagination," I said.

"To think we are just to enjoy ourselves," she went on; "just to go on
dressing and playing and having meals and spending money!" She seemed
to be referring not simply to my cousins, but to the whole world of
industry and property about us. "But what is one to do?" she asked. "I
do wish I had not had to come down. It's all so pointless here. There
seems to be nothing going forward, no ideas, no dreams. No one here
seems to feel quite what I feel, the sort of need there is for MEANING
in things. I hate things without meaning."

"Don't you do--local work?"

"I suppose I shall. I suppose I must find something. Do you think--if
one were to attempt some sort of propaganda?"

"Could you--?" I began a little doubtfully.

"I suppose I couldn't," she answered, after a thoughtful moment. "I
suppose it would come to nothing. And yet I feel there is so much to
be done for the world, so much one ought to be doing.... I want to do
something for the world."

I can see her now as she stood there with her brows nearly frowning, her
blue eyes looking before her, her mouth almost petulant. "One feels that
there are so many things going on--out of one's reach," she said.

I went back in the motor-car with my mind full of her, the quality of
delicate discontent, the suggestion of exile. Even a kind of weakness in
her was sympathetic. She told tremendously against her background. She
was, I say, like a protesting blue flower upon a cinder heap. It is
curious, too, ho