“I don’t see why you should speak like that of Sydney,” cried Lydia, with some show of spirit. “It’s rather ungrateful seeing how kind he has been to you.” Which was true; Olivia admitted it. “But the man who is kind to you, in a social way, isn’t always the man you would like to marry.” “But it’s I, not you,” Lydia protested, “who am going to marry him.” “Then you are going to marry him?” “I don’t see anything else to do,” replied Lydia, and she went again over the twenty thousand a year argument. Olivia saw that her hesitations were those of a cool brain and not of an ardent spirit, and she knew that the brain had already come to a decision. “I quite see,” said Lydia half apologetically, “that you think I ought to wait until I fall in love with a man. But I should have to wait till Doomsday. I thought I was in love with poor dear Fred. But I wasn’t. I’m not that sort. If Fred had gone on living I should have gone on letting him adore me and have been perfectly happy—so long as he didn’t expect me to adore him.” “Doesn’t Mr. Rooke expect you to adore him?” asked Olivia. Lydia laughed, showing her white teeth, and shook a wise and mirthful head. “I’m convinced that was the secret of his first unhappy marriage.” “What?” “The poor lady adored him and bored him to frenzy.” The clock on the mantelpiece struck the half-hour after six. Lydia rose. She must go home and dress. She was dining with Rooke at Claridge’s at eight. “I’m so glad we’ve had this little talk,” she said. “I felt I must tell you.” “I thought you wanted my advice,” said Olivia. “Oh, you silly!” answered Lydia, gathering her furs around her. They exchanged the conventional parting kiss. Olivia accompanied her to the landing. When the summoned lift appeared and its doors clashed open, Lydia said: “You wouldn’t like to take over that hat shop at a valuation, would you?” “Good heavens, no!” cried the astounded Olivia. Lydia laughed and waved a grey-gloved hand and disappeared downwards, like the Lady of the Venusberg in an antiquated opera. Olivia re-entered the flat thoughtfully, and sat down in an arm-chair by the tiny wood fire in the sitting-room grate. Lydia and Lydia’s galley, and all that it signified, disturbed her more than ever. They seemed not only to have no ideals even as ballast, but to have flung them overboard like so many curse-ridden Jonahs. To what soulless land was she speeding with them? And not only herself, but the England, of which she, as much as any individual, was a representative unit? Was it for the reaching of such a haven that her brothers had given their lives? Was it that she should reach such a haven that her mother, instinct with heroic passion, had sent Stephen Gale forth to death? Was it to guide the world on this Lydian path that Blaise Olifant had given an arm and young Triona had cheerfully endured Dantesque torturings?