The blood rushed to his face and the flame of an ecstatic happiness lit up his eyes. He could scarcely believe that he had heard aright. “Do you mean that?” he cried, hastily. “Oh, don’t play with me. Don’t you know that I love you? I love you with all the strength I’ve got. When I’m away from you it’s madness; I can think of nothing but you all day, all night.” Winnie sighed. “I’m so glad to hear you say that.” “Do you care for me at all?” he insisted, doubting still. “Yes, I love you with my whole soul.” When they reached St. Gregory’s Vicarage, the Canon greeted Railing with effusion. “My dear Mr. Railing, it’s so kind of you to come. Permit me to introduce you to my sister. Mr. Railing is the author of that admirable and much-discussed book, _The Future of Socialism_.” “And what _is_ the future of Socialism?” asked Lady Sophia, politely. “It took me three hundred pages to answer that question,” he replied, with a smile. “Then you must allow me to give you some tea at once.” Winnie went up to her uncle, who had been lunching quietly with his sister, but he put out a deprecating hand. “You’d better not kiss me after being at a temperance meeting,” he said. “I’m awfully afraid of catchin’ things. I always think it’s such a mercy there are no poor people at St. Gregory’s.” “D’you think they’re all infectious?” smiled Railing. “One can never tell, you know. I always recommend Theodore to sprinkle himself with Keating’s Powder when he’s been marrying the lower classes.” Railing tightened his lips at the flippant remark, and Winnie, watching him, was ashamed of the frivolous atmosphere into which she had brought him. It seemed to her suddenly that these people among whom till now she had lived contentedly, were but play-actors repeating carelessly the words they had learnt by rote. That drawing-room, with its smart chintzes and fashionable Sheraton, was a stuffy prison in which she could not breathe. She knew a hundred parlours which differed from this one hardly at all: the same flowers were on the same tables, arranged in the same way, the same books lay here and there, the same periodicals. In one and all the same life was led; and it was artificial, conventional, untrue. She and her friends were performing an elaborate but trivial play, some of the scenes whereof took place in a dining-room, some in a ball-room, others in the park, and some in fashionable shops. But round this vast theatre was a great stone wall, and outside it men and women and children swarmed in vast numbers, and lived and loved and starved and worked and died. Bertram turned to Canon Spratte. “I see that one of our most ardent champions in the cause of temperance has just died,” he said. “Bishop Andover?” exclaimed the Canon. “Very sad, very sad! I knew him well. Sophia is of opinion that he was the most learned of our bishops.” “He’ll be a great loss.”