Margaret sat beside a vase of roses on her table and Gregory and Freda faced her, sitting on the couch-bed. The roses were yellow, pink--delicate, aloof, like Margaret herself and she made a lovely picture. Gregory’s eyes rested on her a little wearily as if he had failed to find what he sought for in the picture. He was silent at first--then, deftly, Margaret drew him out little by little about the Irish Republic, and he became different, a man on fire with an idea. Fascinated, stirred, Freda watched him, broke into eager questioning here and there and was answered as eagerly. They were hot in discussion when Walter Carpenter came. There was a moment of embarrassment as if each of the men studied the other to find out his purpose. Then Margaret spoke lightly. “Do you want to hear about the Irish question from an expert, Walter?” “Is Mr. Macmillan an expert?” “He’s to lecture about it on Friday night.” “It’s a dangerous subject for a lecture.” “It’s a dangerous subject to live with,” answered Gregory a little defiantly. “Are you a Sinn Feiner, Macmillan?” “I’m an Irish Republican.” There was a dignity in his tone which made Walter feel his half-bantering tone ill judged. He changed at once. “We’re very ignorant of the whole question over here,” he said, “all we have to judge from is partisan literature. We never get both sides.” “There is only one side fit to be heard.” Freda gave a little gasp of joy at that statement. It brushed away all the conventions of polite discussion in its unequivocal clearness of conviction. “I was sure of it,” she said. Gregory turned and smiled at her. The four of them stood, as they had stood to greet Walter, Margaret by the side of her last guest, looking somehow fitting there, Gregory and Freda together as if in alliance against the others. Then conversation, civilities enveloped them all again. But the alliances remained. Freda made no secret of her admiration for Gregory. The openness of his mind, the way his convictions flashed through the talk seemed to her to demand an answer as fair. Her mind leapt to meet his. Gregory Macmillan was Irish born, of a stock which was not pure Irish for his mother was an Englishwoman. It had been her people who were responsible for Gregory’s education, his public school and early Oxford life. But in his later years at Oxford his restlessness and discontents had become extreme. Ireland with its tangle of desires, its heating patriotism, heating on the old altars already holy with martyrs, had captured his imagination and ambition. He had gone to Ireland and interested himself entirely in the study of Celtic literature and the Celtic language, living in Connacht and helping edit a Gaelic Weekly. Then had come the war, and conflict for Gregory. The fight for Irish freedom, try as he did to make it his only end, had become smaller beside the great world confusion and, conquering his revulsion at fighting with English forces he had enlisted.