wrong people do it," said Boreham.

"The people who do it are usually the wrong people," corrected May; "the
right people are generally occupied with skilled work--technical or
intellectual. That clears the way for the unskilled to run about and
talk, and so the world goes round, infinite labour and talent quietly
building up the Empire, and idleness talking about it and interrupting
it."

Boreham stared at her with petulant admiration. "You could do anything,"
he said bluntly.

"I shall put an advertisement into the _Times_," said May. "'A
gentlewoman of independent means, unable to do any work properly, but
anxious to organise.'"

They had now turned into a narrow lane and were almost at the gates of
the Lodgings. May did not want Boreham to come into the Court with her,
she wanted to dismiss him now. She had a queer feeling of dislike that
he should tread upon the gravel of the Court, and perhaps come actually
to the front door of the Lodgings. She stopped and held out her hand.

"I have your promise," he said, "I can come and see you?" He looked
thwarted and miserable.

"If you happen to be in town," she said.

"But I mean to live there," he said. This insinuation on her part, that
she had not accepted the fact that he was going to live in town, was
unsympathetic of her. "I can't stand the loneliness of Chartcote, it has
become intolerable."

The word "loneliness" melted May. She knew what loneliness meant. After
all, how could he help being the man he was? Was it his fault that he
had been born with his share of the Boreham heredity? Was he able to
control his irritability, to suppress his exaggerated self-esteem; both
of them, perhaps, symptoms of some obscure form of neurosis?

May felt a pang of pity for him. His face showed signs of pain and
discontent and restlessness.

"I shall leave Chartcote any day, immediately. London draws me back to
it. I can think there. I can't at Chartcote, the atmosphere is sodden at
Chartcote, my neighbours are clods."

May looked at him anxiously. "It is dull for you," she said.

Encouraged by this he went on rapidly. "Art, literature is nothing to
them. They are centaurs. They ought to eat grass. They don't know a
sunset from a swede. They don't know the name of a bird, except game
birds; they are ignorant fools, they are damned----" Boreham's breathing
was loud and rapid.

"And yet you hate Oxford," murmured May, as she held out her hand. She
still did not mean