antry did not want to give him up.

Chantry was a feminist; a bit of an aesthete but canny at affairs;
good-looking, and temperate, and less hipped on the matter of sex than
feminist gentlemen are wont to be. That is to say, while he vaguely
wanted _l'homme moyen sensuel_ to mend his ways, he did not expect him
to change fundamentally. He rather thought the women would manage all
that when they got the vote. You see, he was not a socialist: only a
feminist.

Havelock the Dane, on the other hand, was by no means a feminist, but
was a socialist. What probably brought the two men together--apart from
their common likableness--was that each, in his way, refused to "go the
whole hog." They sometimes threshed the thing out together, unable to
decide on a programme, but always united at last in their agreement that
things were wrong. Havelock trusted Labor, and Chantry trusted Woman;
the point was that neither trusted men like themselves, with a little
money and an inherited code of honor. Havelock wanted his money taken
away from him; Chantry desired his code to be trampled on by innumerable
feminine feet. But each was rather helpless, for both expected these
things to be done for them.

Except for this tie of ineffectuality, they had nothing special in
common. Havelock's life had been adventurous in the good old-fashioned
sense: the bars down and a deal of wandering. Chantry had sown so many
crops of intellectual wild oats that even the people who came for
subscriptions might be forgiven for thinking him a mental libertine,
good for subscriptions and not much else. Between them, they boxed the
compass about once a week. Havelock had more of what is known as
"personality" than Chantry; Chantry more of what is known as "culture."
They dovetailed, on the whole, not badly.

Havelock, this afternoon, was full of a story. Chantry wanted to listen,
though he knew that he could have listened better if Havelock's heel had
not been quite so ponderous on the saecular oak. He took refuge in a
cosmic point of view. That was the only point of view from which
Havelock (it was, by the way, his physical type only that had caused him
to be nicknamed the Dane: his ancestors had come over from England in
great discomfort two centuries since), in his blonde hugeness, became
negligible. You had to climb very high to see him small.

"You never did the man justice," Havelock was saying.

"Justice be hanged!" replied Chantry.

"Quite so: the