“I know. In fact, I gather that there are very few representatives of any causes whatever whom you have _not_ had to speak.” “I see,” said Eddy, “that Pollard has told you all.” “Pollard has told me some things. And you must remember that I spent both Saturday and Sunday evenings at the Club.” “What,” inquired Eddy hopefully, “did you think of it?” Datcherd was silent for a moment. Perhaps he was remembering again how kind it had been of Eddy to manage the Club all this time. When he spoke, it was with admirable moderation. “It hardly,” he said, “seems quite on the lines I left it on. I was a little surprised, I must own. We had a very small Club on Sunday night, because a lot of them had gone off to some service in church. That surprised me rather. They never used to do that. Of course I don’t mind, but----” “That’s Traherne,” said Eddy. “He got a tremendous hold on some of them when he came down to speak. He’s always popular, you know, with men and lads.” “I daresay. What made you get him?” “Oh, to speak about rents and wages and things. He’s very good. They liked him.” “That is apparent. He’s dragged some of them into the Church Socialist League, and more to church after him. Well, it’s their own business, of course; if they like the sort of thing, I’ve no objection. They’ll get tired of it soon, I expect.... But, if you’ll excuse my asking, why on earth have you been corrupting their minds with lectures on Tariff Reform, National Service, Ulsterism and Dreadnoughts? Didn’t you realise that one can’t let in that sort of influence without endangering the sanity of a set of half-educated lads? I left them reading Mill; I find them reading Kipling. Upon my word, anyone would think you belonged to the Primrose League, from the way you’ve been going on.” “I do,” said Eddy simply. Datcherd stared at him, utterly taken aback. “You _what_?” “I belong to the Primrose League,” Eddy repeated. “Why shouldn’t I?” Datcherd pulled his startled wits together, and laughed shortly. “I beg your pardon. The mistake, I suppose, was mine. I had somehow got it into my head that you were a Fabian.” “So I am,” said Eddy, patiently explaining. “All those old things, you know. And most of the new ones as well. I’m sorry if you didn’t know; I suppose I ought to have mentioned it, but I never thought about it. Does it matter?” Datcherd was gazing at him with grave, startled eyes, as at a maniac. “Matter? Well, I don’t know. Yes, I suppose it would have mattered, from my point of view, if I’d known. Because it just means that you’ve been playing when I thought you were in earnest; that, whereas I supposed you took your convictions and mine seriously and meant to act on them, really they’re just a game to you. You take no cause seriously, I suppose.” “I take all causes seriously,” Eddy corrected him quickly. He got up, and walked about the room, his hands deep in his pockets, frowning a little because life was so serious.