"And pray what's yours when you talk like that? Would you say such things if you didn't know the depths of my good nature?" "Your good nature all comes back to that," said Sherringham. "It's an abyss of ruin--for others. You've no respect. I'm speaking of the artistic character--in the direction and in the plentitude in which you have it. It's unscrupulous, nervous, capricious, wanton." "I don't know about respect. One can be good," Miriam mused and reasoned. "It doesn't matter so long as one's powerful," he returned. "We can't have everything, and surely we ought to understand that we must pay for things. A splendid organisation for a special end, like yours, is so rare and rich and fine that we oughtn't to grudge it its conditions." "What do you call its conditions?" Miriam asked as she turned and looked at him. "Oh the need to take its ease, to take up space, to make itself at home in the world, to square its elbows and knock, others about. That's large and free; it's the good nature you speak of. You must forage and ravage and leave a track behind you; you must live upon the country you traverse. And you give such delight that, after all, you're welcome--you're infinitely welcome!" "I don't know what you mean. I only care for the idea," the girl said. "That's exactly what I pretend--and we must all help you to it. You use us, you push us about, you break us up. We're your tables and chair, the simple furniture of your life." "Whom do you mean by 'we'?" Peter gave an ironic laugh. "Oh don't be afraid--there will be plenty of others!" She made no return to this, but after a moment broke out again. "Poor Dashwood immured with mamma--he's like a lame chair that one has put into the corner." "Don't break him up before he has served. I really believe something will come out of him," her companion went on. "However, you'll break me up first," he added, "and him probably never at all." "And why shall I honour you so much more?" "Because I'm a better article and you'll feel that." "You've the superiority of modesty--I see." "I'm better than a young mountebank--I've vanity enough to say that." She turned on him with a flush in her cheek and a splendid dramatic face. "How you hate us! Yes, at bottom, below your little cold taste, you _hate_ us!" she repeated. He coloured too, met her eyes, looked into them a minute, seemed to accept the imputation and then said quickly: "Give it up: come away with me." "Come away with you?" "Leave this place. Give it up." "You brought me here, you insisted it should be only you, and now you must stay," she declared with a head-shake and a high manner. "You should know what you want, dear Mr. Sherringham." "I do--I know now. Come away before you see her." "Before----?" she seemed to wonder.