“It was about time you came to throw cold water over us,” smiled Jack sardonically. Ah, how sardonic he could be: deep, deep and devilish. He too must have a very big devil in his soul. But he never let it out. Or did he? Harriet looked at him, and shuddered slightly. He scared her, she had a revulsion from him. He was a bit repulsive to her. And she knew he had always been so. “Ah, well!” said Jack. “Cheery-o! We aren’t such fools as we seem. The milk’s spilt, we won’t sulk over it.” “No, don’t,” cried Harriet. “I hate sulky people.” “So do I, Mrs Somers, worse than water in my beer,” said Jack genially. “You and me, we’re not going to fall out, are we?” “No,” said Harriet. “I don’t fall out with people--and I don’t let them fall out with me.” “Quite right. Don’t give ’em a chance, eh? You’re right of it. You and me are pals, aren’t we?” “Yes,” said Harriet easily, as if she were talking to some child she must soothe. “We’re pals. But why didn’t you bring your wife? I’m so fond of her.” “Oh, Vicky’s all right. She’s A 1 stuff. She thinks the world of you, you know. By golly, she does; she thinks the world of you.” “Then why didn’t you bring her to see me?” “Eh? Why didn’t I? Oh--well--let me see--why, she’d got her married sister and so forth come to see her, so she couldn’t leave them. But she sent her love, and all that sort of sweet nothing, you know. I told her I should never have the face to repeat it, you know. I was to give you _heaps_ of love, ‘Heaps of love to Mrs Somers!’ Damn it, I said, how do I know she wants me dumping down heaps of love on her. But that was the message--heaps of love to Mrs Somers, and don’t you forget it. I’m not likely to forget it, by gee! There aren’t two Mrs Somers in the universe: I’m ready to bet all I’ve got on that. Ay, and a bit over. Now, look here, Mrs Somers, between you and me and the bed-post--” “Do you mean Lovat is the bed-post?” put in Harriet. “He’s silent enough for one.” Jack glanced at Somers, and also relapsed into silence. CHAP: XVI. A ROW IN TOWN The thing that Kangaroo had to reckon with, and would not reckon with, was the mass-spirit. A collection of men does not necessarily mean a mob. A collection of men--an accidental gathering--may be just a gathering, drawn by a moment’s curiosity, or it may be an audience drawn to hear something, or it may be a congregation, gathered together in some spirit of earnest desire: or it may be just a crowd, inspired by no one motive. The mass-spirit is complex. At its lowest it is a mob. And what is a mob? To put it as briefly as possible, it is a collection of all the weak souls, sickeningly conscious of their weakness, into a heavy mob, that lusts to glut itself with blind destructive power. Not even vengeance. The spirit of vengeance belongs to a mass which is higher than a mob.