“There was nothing to forgive,” said Richard, his face grave and still. “I knew you hadn’t,” said Kangaroo. Richard knitted his brows. He looked at the long, yellow face. It was so strange and so frightening to him. “You bark at me as if I were Little Red Riding-hood,” he said, smiling. Kangaroo turned dark, inscrutable eyes on him. “Help me!” he said, almost in a whisper. “Help me.” “Yes,” said Richard. Kangaroo held out his hand: and Richard took it. But not without a slight sense of repugnance. Then he listened to the faint, far-off noises of the town, and looked at the beautiful flowers in the room: violets, orchids, tuberoses, delicate yellow and red roses, iceland poppies, orange like transmitted light, lilies. It was like a tomb, like a mortuary, all the flowers, and that other faint, sickening odour. “I am not wrong, you know,” said Kangaroo. “No one says you are,” laughed Richard gently. “I am not wrong. Love is still the greatest.” His voice sank in its huskiness to a low resonance. Richard’s heart stood still. Kangaroo lay quite motionless, but with some of the changeless pride which had lent him beauty, at times, when he was himself. The Lamb of God grown into a sheep. Yes, the nobility. “You heard Willie Struthers’ speech?” said Kangaroo, his face changing as he looked up at Somers. “Yes.” “Well?” “It seemed to me logical,” said Richard, not knowing how to answer. “Logical!” Even Kangaroo flickered with surprise. “You and logic!” “You see,” said Richard very gently, “the educated world has preached the divinity of work at the lower classes. They broke them in, like draught-horses, put them all in the collar and set them all between the shafts. There they are, all broken in, _workers_. They are conscious of nothing save that they are workers. They accept the fact that nothing is divine but work: work being service, and service being love. The highest is work. Very well then, accept the conclusion if you accept the premises. The working classes are the highest, it is for them to inherit the earth. You can’t deny that, if you assert the sacredness of work.” He spoke quietly, gently. But he spoke because he felt it was kinder, even to the sick man, than to avoid discussion altogether. “But I don’t believe in the sacredness of work, Lovat,” said Kangaroo. “No, but they believe it themselves. And it follows from the sacredness of love.” “I want them to be men, men, men--not implements at a job.” The voice was weak now, and took queer, high notes. “Yes, I know. But men inspired by love. And love has only service as its means of expression.” “How do you know? You never love,” said Kangaroo in a faint, sharp voice. “The joy of love is in being with the beloved--as near as you can get--‘And I, if I be lifted up, will draw all men unto me.’--For life, for life’s sake, Lovat, not for work. Lift them up, that they may live.” Richard was silent. He knew it was no good arguing.