He made no other allusion to the previous night and Medora’s wonderful eyes bent upon him with apparent adoration, while her wonderful heart grew a little hard. She remembered that she had been married and he never had. “You’re a saint,” she said. “Oh, no—only a clean-minded, honourable man, Medora.” She fell asleep gently hating him that night; but after many hours of dreamless slumber, she awoke in better spirits and found herself loving Kellock again. He was a hero and somewhat abnormal, as heroes must be; but, after all, she was a heroine, and should therefore find no supreme difficulty in rising to the heights on which he moved. She saw indeed that this would be necessary if she wished to be happy. She met him radiantly next morning and he found her mood easy and humble. He knew a man at Doulton’s Pottery, and when he suggested going to see the famous works, she agreed. “We shall be among our own sort there,” he said. “It will be good for us. I don’t think sitting in Hyde Park watching the rich was good for us. I may have said a bit more than I meant about them. They’re not all worthless wasters, of course, and it’s quite true what you said, that there may be a bit of class prejudice in me.” “No, there isn’t—not a scrap,” she answered. “And if there is, they deserve it. Nobody looks all round things like you do. You’ll live to see it all altered no doubt, and do your bit to help alter it.” “If I had my way, them that don’t work shouldn’t eat,” he declared. “Work’s the saving of mankind, and you can’t be healthy-minded if you sit and look on at life, any more than you can be healthy-bodied if you take no exercise. We all owe a lot to every one else, and them that won’t pay that debt and want to take all and give nought, are wicked enemies to the State.” At Doulton’s Medora was genuinely interested, and best she liked the painting rooms. “That’s beautiful work,” she said. “If I’d been brought up to that, I’d have joyed in it, because there’s something to show for it, and you’d know the flowers and ribbons you painted was brightening up other people’s homes. But my work—just shifting paper and putting the zinc between the sheets for the glazing rollers—there’s nothing to it.” “Don’t you say that. All necessary work is fine if it’s done well, same as you did it. But there’ll be no more of that sort of work for you. Your place will be at home; and I shouldn’t be content for you just to do housewife’s work neither, Medora. You’re going to be my right hand and look after my papers and help me with the big things I hope to do—not in the Mill, but out of it.” “I never shall be clever enough.”