ot a bit on the lines of the old Fabians and Bernard
Shavians and the rest who used to believe only in Matter--specially
landed property matter--and in parcelling that out among themselves. My
friends are for parcelling out what they call the Divine Intelligence,
which they say will bring them everything they need for the good of
others and, incidentally, themselves. Of course none of them have a
penny. But they do contrive to get what they want for other people--it
was a soup kitchen this winter where they fed 11,000 starving poor.
Only, when they begin, they never have the smallest idea of HOW it's
going to be done.'

Lady Bridget was so absorbed in her subject matter that she did not
notice the entrance of the men; but Mrs Gildea saw that Colin McKeith
was making straight towards them. He halted behind Bridget's chair.
Biddy went on in reply to a question from her friend.

'You see, they argue this way, "We don't know," they say, "the HOW of
the simplest things in life, we don't know the HOW of our actual
existence--how we move or think--not even the HOW of the most ordinary
fact in science. We only know that there must be an Intelligence who
does know and who has forces at command and the power to set them in
motion."'

'And how do we know that?' asked Colin McKeith.

Bridget turned with a start and looked at him solemnly for a second or
two.

'You paralyse me: you are too big. I can't speak to you when you are
standing up. Please sit down.'

He went to fetch a chair. At the moment, Lady Tallant came up.

'Biddy, will you sing. Do for Heaven's sake make a sensation. Help me
out! You know how!'

Lady Bridget had a funny inscrutable little smile and a gleam in her
eyes which crinkled up when she was going to say or do something rather
naughty.

'I'll do my best, Rosamond. But you don't think it would be a dangerous
experiment, do you?'

Lady Tallant laughed, and told Captain Vereker Wells to take her to the
piano.

'YOU know that Biddy does a lot of mischief when she sings,' said the
Governor's wife, sitting down in Lady Bridget's vacant place beside Mrs
Gildea. Colin McKeith, still on the outskirts with his chair, stood
leaning upon it, watching the performer.

The piano was in such a position that Lady Bridget faced him.

A vain man might have fancied that she was singing at him, and that the
by-play of her song--the sudden eye-brightenings, the little twists of
her mouth, the head gestures, were f