Because she had more than a suspicion that he was right, she began to quote Mrs. Falconer, and to give him all the extreme theories. He listened closely enough, but she knew intuitively that he was utterly unimpressed. “Do you yourself believe all that?” “No; not all of it.” “It comes to this, you are quoting abnormal people. You can’t generalise for the million on the idiosyncrasies of the few. These women are abnormal.” “But the workers are normal.” “Many of them lead abnormal lives. But do you think that we men do not want to see all that bettered?” “Then you would give us the vote?” Her eyes glimmered with sudden mischief, and his answered them. “Certainly, to the normal women. Why not?” “Are all the male voters normal?” “Don’t make me say cynical things. If so many hundreds of thousands of fools have the vote at present, I do not see that it matters much if many more thousands of fools are given it.” “That isn’t you!” “It is a sensible, if a cynical conclusion. But I hope for something better. We are at school, we moderns, and we may be a little too clever. But if any parson tells me that we are not better than our forefathers, I can only call him a liar.” She laughed. “Oh, that’s healthy—that’s sound. I’m tired of thinking—criticising. I want to do things. It may be that quiet work in a corner is better than all the talking that ever was.” “Of course. Read Pasteur’s life. There’s the utter damning of the merely political spirit.” He pulled out his watch and looked at it reflectively. “Half-past six. Where are you staying?” “At the ‘Black Boar.’” “I have something that I should like to show you. Have you time?” She smiled at him shyly. “Now and again time doesn’t matter.” Canterton led her through the great plantations to the wild land on the edge of the fir woods where he had built the new cottage. It was finished, but empty. The garden had been turfed and planted, and beyond the young yew hedge the masses of sandstone were splashed with diverse colours. “It’s new!” “Quite! I built it in the winter.” She stood at gaze, her lips quivering. “How does it please you?” “Oh, I like it! It is just the cottage one dreams about when one is in a London suburb. And that rock garden! The colours are as soft and as gorgeous as the colours on a Persian dish.” Canterton had the key with him. They walked up the path that was paved with irregular blocks of stone. Eve’s eyes saw the date on the porch. She understood in a flash why he had not told her for whom he had built it. Canterton unlocked the door. A silence fell upon her, and her eyes became more shadowy and serious as she went from room to room and saw all the exquisite but simple details, all the thought that had been put into this cottage. Everything was as she would have imagined it for herself. She touched the oak panelling with the tips of her fingers and smiled. “It is just perfect!” He took her to one of the windows. “The vision is not cramped?” “No.”