“Look, dear! Isn’t it lucky? I’ve had these in my wardrobe ever since we were at Eastbourne, years and years ago. They will not be a bit too small for you. Or if they are--it doesn’t matter. No one will see us. And I’ll lend you my mackintosh to go out in.” Lacrima’s head sank back upon her pillows and she stared at her cousin with a look of helpless terror. “You needn’t look so horrified, you silly little thing. There’s nothing to be afraid of. Besides, people oughtn’t to give way to their feelings. They ought to be brave and show spirit. It’s lucky for you you did come to us. There’s no knowing what a cowardly little thing you’d have grown into, if you hadn’t. Mother is quite right. It will do you ever so much good to bathe with me. You can’t be drowned, you know. The water isn’t out of your depth anywhere. Father says every girl in England ought to learn to swim, so as to be able to rescue people. He says that this is the great new idea of the Empire--that we should all join in making the race braver and stronger. You are English now, you know--not Italian any more. I am going to take fencing lessons soon. Father says you never can tell what may happen, and we ought all to be prepared.” Lacrima did not speak. A vision of a fierce aggressive crowd of hard, hostile, healthy young persons, drilling, riding, shooting, fencing, and dragging such renegades as herself remorselessly along with them, blocked every vista of her mind. “I hate the Empire!” she cried at last. Gladys had subsided once more into her chair--the little bathing-suit, symbol of our natural supremacy, clasped fondly in her lap. “I know,” she said, “where you get your socialistic nonsense from. Yes, I do! You needn’t shake your head. You get it from Maurice Quincunx.” “I don’t get it from anybody,” protested the Pariah; and then, in a weak murmur, “it grows up naturally, in my heart.” “What is that you’re saying?” cried Gladys. “Sometimes I think you are really not right in your mind. You mutter so. You mutter, and talk to yourself. It irritates me more than I can say. It would irritate a saint.” “I am sorry if I annoy you, cousin.” “Annoy me? It would take more than a little coward like you to annoy me! But I am not going to argue about it. Father says arguing is only fit for feeble people. He says we Romers never argue. We think, and then we _do_. I’m going to bed. So there’s your book! I hope you’ll enjoy it Miss Socialism!” She picked up the volume from the floor and flung it into her cousin’s lap. The gesture of contempt with which she did this would admirably have suited some Roman Drusilla tossing aside the culture of slaves. An hour later the door between the two rooms was hesitatingly opened, and a white figure stole to the head of Gladys’ couch. “You’re not asleep, dear, are you? Oh Gladys, darling! Please, please, please, don’t make me bathe with you! You don’t know how I dread it.”