“Just try,” he besought her, “to understand their points of view--everyone’s point of view. Or rather, don’t bother about points of view; just know the people, and you won’t be able to help caring for them. People are like that--so much more alive and important than what they think or do, that none of that seems to matter. Oh, don’t put up barriers, Molly. Do love my friends. I want you to. I’ll love all yours; I will indeed, whatever dreadful things they’ve done or are doing. I’ll love them even if they burn widows’ houses, or paint problem pictures for the Academy, or write prize novels, or won’t take in _Unity_. I’ll love them through everything. Won’t you love mine a little, too?” She laughed back at him, unsteadily. “Idiot, of course I will. I will indeed. I’ll love them nearly all. Only I can’t love things I hate, Eddy. Don’t ask me to do that, because I can’t.” “But you mustn’t hate, Molly. Why hate? It isn’t what things are there for, to be hated. Look here. Here are you and I set down in the middle of all this jolly, splendid, exciting jumble of things, just like a toy-shop, and we can go round looking at everything, touching everything, tasting everything (I used always to try to taste tarts and things in shops, didn’t you?) Well isn’t it all jolly and nice, and don’t you like it? And here you sit and talk of hating!” Molly was looking at him with her merry eyes unusually serious. “But Eddy--you’re just pretending when you talk of hating nothing. You know you hate some things yourself; there are some things everyone must hate. You know you do.” “Do I?” Eddy considered it. “Why, yes, I suppose so; some things. But very few.” “There’s good,” said Molly, with a gesture of one hand, “and there’s bad....” she swept the other. “They’re quite separate, and they’re fighting.” Eddy observed that she was a Manichean Dualist. “Don’t know what that is. But it seems to mean an ordinary sensible person, so I hope I am. Aren’t you?” “I think not. Not to your extent, anyhow. But I quite see your point of view. Now will you see mine? And Eileen’s? And all the others? Anyhow, will you think it over, so that by the time we’re married you’ll be ready to be friends?” Molly shook her head. “It’s no use, Eddy. Don’t let’s talk about it any more. Come and play coon-can; I do like it such a lot better than bridge; it’s so much sillier.” “I like them all,” said Eddy. CHAPTER XIII. MOLLY.