THE NEW MACHIAVELLI

in pink and more particularly distinguished by a pink bo

our little group. Gertrude had been sipping admiration and was not

disposed to play a passive part in the talk.

"Socialism!" she cried, catching the word. "It's well Pa isn't

here. He has Fits when people talk of socialism. Fits!"

The initial laughed in a general kind of way.

The curate said there was socialism AND socialism, and looked at

Margaret to gauge whether he had been too bold in this utterance.

But she was all, he perceived, for broad-mindness, and he stirred

himself (and incidentally his tea) to still more liberality of

expression. He said the state of the poor was appalling, simply

appalling; that there were times when he wanted to shatter the whole

system, "only," he said, turning to me appealingly, "What have we

got to put in its place?"

"The thing that exists is always the more evident alternative," I

said.

The little curate looked at it for a moment. "Precisely," he said

explosively, and turned stirring and with his head a little on one

side, to hear what Margaret was saying.

Margaret was saying, with a swift blush and an effect of daring,

that she had no doubt she was a socialist.

"And wearing a gold chain!" said Gertrude, "And drinking out of

eggshell! I like that!"

I came to Margaret's rescue. "It doesn't follow that because one's

a socialist one ought to dress in sackcloth and ashes."

The initial coloured deeply, and having secured my attention by

prodding me slightly with the wrist of the hand that held his

teacup, cleared his throat and suggested that "one ought to be

consistent."

I perceived we were embarked upon a discussion of the elements. We

began an interesting little wrangle one of those crude discussions

of general ideas that are dear to the heart of youth. I and

Margaret supported one another as socialists, Gertrude and Sybil and

the initial maintained an anti-socialist position, the curate

attempted a cross-bench position with an air of intending to come

down upon us presently with a casting vote. He reminded us of a

number of useful principles too often overlooked in argument, that

in a big question like this there was much to be said on both sides,

that if every one did his or her duty to every one about them there

would be no difficulty with social problems at all, that over and

above all enactments we needed moral changes in people themselves.

My cousin Gertrude was a difficult controversialist to manage, being

unconscious of inconsistency in statement and absolutely impervious

to reply. Her standpoint was essentially materialistic; she didn't

see why she shouldn't have a good time because other people didn't;

they would have a good time, she was sure, if she didn't. She said

that 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 enjoyourselves," 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