In cubes of blue, in curves of mauve, They spotted up my firmament; And with my sharp grey heart I strove To stab the colours as they went. “Lou-_la_ ...” they said—“Lou-_la_, a thing At war without a following.” “Lou-_la_ ...” they cried—and now cry I— “At war without an enemy....” “I can’t think how you dare to speak out your imagination,” said the suffragette. “Most people hide it like a sin.” He was always willing to be the text of his own oratory. “Imagination is my Genesis, and my Book of Revelations,” he answered. “There is nothing with more power. It is stronger than faith, for it can really move mountains. It has moved mountains, it has moved England from my path and left me this clear sea.” The suffragette walled herself more securely in. “I have no imagination at all,” she lied, and then she added some truth: “I am very unhappy and lonely.” “The other day ...” said the gardener, “you were happy to be independent and alone.” “That’s why I’m now unhappy to be independent and alone. You can’t discover the heaven in a thing without also tripping over the hell. I like a black and white life.” “Don’t think,” said the gardener suddenly, and almost turned the patting of her knee into a slap. “It’s a thing that should only be done in moderation. Some day you won’t be able to control your craving for thought, and then you’ll die of Delirium Tremens.” “It’s not such a dangerous drug as some,” smiled the suffragette. “I’d rather have that craving than the drink craving, or the society craving, or the love craving.” “Better to have nothing you can’t control.” “You hypocrite! You can’t control your imagination.” “You’re right,” said the gardener after a pause. He was a curiously honest opponent in argument. Besides, she had stopped crying, and there was no special reason for continuing the discussion. Also Mrs. Paul Rust at that moment appeared between the bay trees. Mrs. Rust’s hair looked vicious in a garden, beside the geraniums, which were at least sincere in colour, however blatant. “Is this private?” she asked. There was something in the shy look of the garden, and in the reproachful look of the gardener, that made the question natural. “No,” said the gardener. “This is the ship’s garden.” “Good,” said Mrs. Paul Rust. She always said “good” to everything she had not heard before. To her the newest was of necessity the best. Originality was her ideal, and as unattainable as most ideals are. For she was not in the least original herself. She was doomed for ever to stand outside the door of her temple. And “good” was her tribute of recognition to those who had free passes into the temple. It owned that they had shown her something that she would never have thought of for herself. For nothing had ever sprung uniquely from her. Even in her son she could only claim half the copyright.