“I feel,” she said, “that I am to blame. I have Developed. That first book of mine—I do not go back upon a word of it, mind, but it has been misunderstood, misapplied.” “It has,” said Widgery, trying to look so deeply sympathetic as to be visible in the dark. “Deliberately misunderstood.” “Don’t say that,” said the lady. “Not deliberately. I try and think that critics are honest. After their lights. I was not thinking of critics. But she—I mean—” She paused, an interrogation. “It is possible,” said Dangle, scrutinising his sticking-plaster. “I write a book and state a case. I want people to _think_ as I recommend, not to _do_ as I recommend. It is just Teaching. Only I make it into a story. I want to Teach new Ideas, new Lessons, to promulgate Ideas. Then when the Ideas have been spread abroad—Things will come about. Only now it is madness to fly in the face of the established order. Bernard Shaw, you know, has explained that with regard to Socialism. We all know that to earn all you consume is right, and that living on invested capital is wrong. Only we cannot begin while we are so few. It is Those Others.” “Precisely,” said Widgery. “It is Those Others. They must begin first.” “And meanwhile you go on banking—” “If I didn’t, some one else would.” “And I live on Mr. Milton’s Lotion while I try to gain a footing in Literature.” “_Try!_” said Phipps. “You _have_ done so.” And, “That’s different,” said Dangle, at the same time. “You are so kind to me. But in this matter. Of course Georgina Griffiths in my book lived alone in a flat in Paris and went to life classes and had men visitors, but then she was over twenty-one.” “Jessica is only seventeen, and girlish for that,” said Dangle. “It alters everything. That child! It is different with a woman. And Georgina Griffiths never flaunted her freedom—on a bicycle, in country places. In this country. Where every one is so particular. Fancy, _sleeping_ away from home. It’s dreadful—If it gets about it spells ruin for her.” “Ruin,” said Widgery. “No man would marry a girl like that,” said Phipps. “It must be hushed up,” said Dangle. “It always seems to me that life is made up of individuals, of individual cases. We must weigh each person against his or her circumstances. General rules don’t apply—” “I often feel the force of that,” said Widgery. “Those are my rules. Of course my books—” “It’s different, altogether different,” said Dangle. “A novel deals with typical cases.” “And life is not typical,” said Widgery, with immense profundity.