The other two men listened in silence, the distant, colonial silence that hears the voice of the old country passionately speaking against them. “But if they’re not to care about politics, what are they to care about?” asked Jaz, in his small, insinuating voice. There was a moment’s pause. Then Jack added his question: “Do you yourself really care about anything, Mr Somers?” Richard turned and looked him for a moment in the eyes. And then, knowing the two men were trying to corner him, he said coolly: “Why, yes. I care supremely.” “About what?” Jack’s question was soft as a drop of water falling into water, and Richard sat struggling with himself. “That,” he answered, “you either know or don’t know. And if you don’t know, it would only be words my trying to tell.” There was a silence of check-mate. “I’m afraid, for myself, I don’t know,” said Jack. But Somers did not answer, and the talk, rather lamely, was turned off to other things. The two men went back to Murdoch Street rather silent, thinking their own thoughts. Jack only blurted once: “What do you make of Jaz, then?” “I like him. He lives by himself and keeps himself pretty dark--which is his nature.” “He’s a cleverer man than you’d take him for--figures things out in a way that surprises me. And he’s better than a detective for getting to know things. He’s got one or two Cornish pals down town, you see--and they tip one another the wink. They’re like the Irish in many ways. And they’re not uncommonly unlike a Chink. I always feel as if Jaz had got a bit of Chinese blood in him. That’s what makes the women like him, I suppose.” “But do the women like him?” “Rose does. I believe he’d make any woman like him, if he laid himself out to do it. Got that quiet way with him, you know, and a sly sort of touch-the-harp-gently, that’s what they like on the quiet. But he’s the sort of chap I don’t exactly fancy mixing my broth with, and drinking of the same can with.” Somers laughed at the avowal of antipathy between the two men. They were not home till two o’clock. Somers found Harriet looking rather plaintive. “You’ve been a long time,” she said. “What did you do?” “Just talked.” “What about?” “Politics.” “And did you like them?” “Yes, quite well.” “And have you promised to see them again to-day?” “Who?” “Why, any of them--the Callcotts.” “No.” “Oh. They’re becoming rather an institution.” “You like them too?” “Yes, they’re all right. But I don’t want to spend my life with them. After all, that sort of people isn’t exactly my sort--and I thought you used to pretend it wasn’t yours.” “It isn’t. But then no sort of people is my sort.” “Yes, it is. Any sort of people, so long as they make a fuss of you.” “Surely they make an even greater fuss of you.” “Do they! It’s you they want, not me. And you go as usual, like a lamb to the slaughter.” “Baa!” he said. “Yes, baa! You should hear yourself bleat.” “I’ll listen,” he said.