"Yes, Andrea. They won't do it unless you tell them to." "Of course they won't," said Madame Beattie. "Then why won't they? What's your infernal spell?" "It's the spell of the East. And you can't tempt them with anything that comes out of the West." "Their food comes out of the West," said Jeff, smarting. "Oh, that! Well, that's about all you can give them. That's what they come for." "All of them? Good God!" "Not good God at all. Don't you know what a man is led by? His belly. But they don't all come for that. Some come for--" She laughed, a rather cackling laugh. "What?" Jeff asked her sternly. He shook her arm involuntarily. "Freedom. That's talked about still. And a lot of demagogues like your Weedon Moore get hold of 'em and debauch 'em and make 'em drunk." "Drunk?" "No, no. Not on liquor. Better if they did. But they tell 'em they're gods and all they've got to do is to climb up on a throne and crown themselves." "Then why won't you," said Jeff, in wrath, "let me knock something else into their heads. You can't do it by facts. There aren't many facts just now that aren't shameful. Why can't you let me do it by poetry?" Madame Beattie stopped in the street and gazed up at the bright heaven. She was remembering how the stars looked in Italy when she was young and sure her voice would sound quite over the world. She seldom challenged the stars now, they moved her so, in an almost terrible way. What had she made of life, they austerely asked her, she who had been driven by them to love and all the excellencies of youth? But then, in answer, she would ask them what they had done for her. "Jeff," said she, "you couldn't do it in a million years. They'll do anything for me, because I bring their own homes to them, but they couldn't make themselves over, even for me." "They like me," said Jeff, "for some mysterious reason." "They like you because I've told them to." "I don't believe it." But in his heart he did. "Jeff," said she, "life isn't a matter of fact, it's a matter of feeling. You can't persuade men and women born in Italy and Greece and Syria and Russia that they're happy in this little bare town. It doesn't smell right to them. Their hearts are somewhere else. And they want nothing so much in the world as to get a breath from there or hear a story or see somebody that's lived there. Lived--not stayed in a _pension_." "Do they feel so when they've seen their sisters and cousins and aunts carved up into little pieces there?" Jeff asked scoffingly. But she was hypnotising him, too. He could believe they did. "What have you to offer 'em, Jeff, besides wages and a prospect of not being assassinated? That's something, but by God! it isn't everything." She swore quite simply because out in the night even in the straight street of a New England town she felt like it and was carelessly willing to abide by the chance of God's objecting.