d things--but that's not what matters--it's the
effect on one's inner self that matters. And now I'm going through the
pangs of revulsion, and just wondering where I can find anything that's
true and satisfying. I believe it may be a kind of birth into a new
life--coming out here you know and all the rest.'

She stopped, her long golden brown eyes fixed Sphinx-like on Joan, who
returned the gaze, but did not answer in words. Biddy went on: 'YOUR
work is practical--not idealistic. I believe the truth of it all is
that the idealists haven't built up on a practical basis. There's too
much POSE. Joan, I do think it's only the pinch of starvation that
knocks down the ridiculous POSE of people.'

'True enough. Your cranks don't get much beyond POSE.--They think they
do, but they don't.'

'Even the ones who believe in themselves--and who are in their way
truly sincere. Joan, do you know, there were moments at the meetings I
went to of those people--Christian Scientists, and my Spiritual
Socialists, and all those philo-factory-girls and tramps, and
philo-beasts, and philo-blacks and the rest of it--Moments when a
ghastly wonder would come over me whether, if we were all stranded on a
desert island with a shortage of food and water, it wouldn't be a case
of fighting for bare existence and of Nature red of tooth and claw.'

'True for you, Lady Bridget. I like the way that's put,' broke in a
voice from the other side of the veranda railing.

Lady Bridget started and looked round, a sudden flush rushing upon the
ivory paleness of her face. If she had not had her back turned to the
garden; if she had not left the gate open behind her, and if the wind
in the bamboos had not then made a noisy rustling, she would have seen
the visitor or heard his steps on the gravel path. Or if she had not
been so absorbed in her subject and her cigarette she might have
noticed that Mrs Gildea had looked up quickly a minute before and given
a mute signal to the intruder not to interrupt the conversation
untowardly.

CHAPTER 12

Lady Bridget recovered herself as Colin McKeith mounted the steps and
made the two ladies a rather self-conscious salute.

'I suppose you know that's a quotation,' she said.

'Weren't you a bit out?' he answered, and repeated the phrase. 'Excuse
my correcting you.'

Bridget shrugged.

'Thank you. But I always thought men of action weren't great readers.
How did you do your reading?'

'Some day--if you ca