George asked to be informed, and opened his eyes at her account of the way in which she still divided her time between the West End and the East, spending always one or two nights a week among the trades and the work-people she had come to know so intimately, whose cause she was fighting with such persistence. "Maxwell doesn't come now," she said. "He is too busy, and his work there is done. But I go because I love the people, and to talk with them and live with them part of every week keeps one's mind clear as to what one wants, and why. Well,"--her voice showed that she smiled,--"will you come? My old maid shall give you coffee, and you shall meet a roomful of tailors and shirtmakers. You shall see what people look like in the flesh--not on paper--after working fourteen hours at a stretch, in a room where you and I could not breathe!" "Charming!"--he bowed ironically. "Of course I will come." They had paused under the shadow of a grove of beech-trees, and were looking back towards the moonlit garden and the house. Suddenly George said, in an odd voice: "Do you mind my saying it? You know, nobody is ever converted--politically--nowadays." In the darkness her flush could not be seen. But he felt the mingled pride and soreness in her voice, under its forced brightness. "I know. How long is it since a speech turned a vote in the House of Commons! One wonders why people take the trouble to speak. Shall we go back? Ah! there is someone pursuing us--my husband and Ancoats!" And two figures, dark for an instant against the brightness of the lawns, plunged into the shadow of the wood. "You wanderers!" said Maxwell, as he distinguished his wife's white dress. "Is this path quite safe in this darkness? Suppose we get out of it." The river, indeed, beneath a steep bank, ran close beside them, and the trees meeting overhead all but shut out the moon. Maxwell, in some anxiety, caught his wife's arm, and made her pause till his eye should be once more certain of the path. Meanwhile Ancoats and Tressady walked quickly back to the lawn, Ancoats talking and laughing with unusual vigour. * * * * * The Maxwells did not hurry themselves. As they emerged from the wood Marcella slipped her hand into her husband's. It was her characteristic caress. The slim, strong hand loved to feel itself in the shelter of his; while to him that seeking touch was the symbol of all that she brought him--the inventive, inexhaustible arts of a passion which was a kind of genius. "Don't go in!" she pleaded. "Why should we?" "No!--why should we?" he repeated, sighing. "Why are we here at all?--that is what I have been asking myself all the evening. And now more than ever since my walk with that boy Ancoats." "Tell me about it," she said eagerly. "Could you get nothing out of him?" Maxwell shrugged his shoulders.