At last, out of a vast accumulation of impressions, decision distilled quite suddenly. I succumbed to Evesham and that dream of the right thing triumphant through expression. I determined I would go over to the Conservatives, and use my every gift and power on the side of such forces on that side as made for educational reorganisation, scientific research, literature, criticism, and intellectual development. That was in 1909. I judged the Tories were driving straight at a conflict with the country, and I thought them bound to incur an electoral defeat. I under-estimated their strength in the counties. There would follow, I calculated, a period of profound reconstruction in method and policy alike. I was entirely at one with Crupp in perceiving in this an immense opportunity for the things we desired. An aristocracy quickened by conflict and on the defensive, and full of the idea of justification by reconstruction, might prove altogether more apt for thought and high professions than Mrs. Redmondson's spoilt children. Behind the now inevitable struggle for a reform of the House of Lords, there would be great heart searchings and educational endeavour. On that we reckoned.... At last we talked it out to the practical pitch, and Crupp and Shoesmith, and I and Gane, made our definite agreement together.... I emerged from enormous silences upon Margaret one evening. She was just back from the display of some new musicians at the Hartsteins. I remember she wore a dress of golden satin, very rich-looking and splendid. About her slender neck there was a rope of gold-set amber beads. Her hair caught up and echoed and returned these golden notes. I, too, was in evening dress, but where I had been escapes me,--some forgotten dinner, I suppose. I went into her room. I remember I didn't speak for some moments. I went across to the window and pulled the blind aside, and looked out upon the railed garden of the square, with its shrubs and shadowed turf gleaming pallidly and irregularly in the light of the big electric standard in the corner. “Margaret,” I said, “I think I shall break with the party.” She made no answer. I turned presently, a movement of enquiry. “I was afraid you meant to do that,” she said. “I'm out of touch,” I explained. “Altogether.” “Oh! I know.” “It places me in a difficult position,” I said. Margaret stood at her dressing-table, looking steadfastly at herself in the glass, and with her fingers playing with a litter of stoppered bottles of tinted glass. “I was afraid it was coming to this,” she said. “In a way,” I said, “we've been allies. I owe my seat to you. I couldn't have gone into Parliament....” “I don't want considerations like that to affect us,” she interrupted. There was a pause. She sat down in a chair by her dressing-table, lifted an ivory hand-glass, and put it down again.