see herself thus. Impossible that she,
with her temperament so feverish, restive, and peculiar, should ever
reach such a haven! It was fantastically too much to expect! And yet, if
not with Edwin Clayhanger, then with another, with some mysterious being
whom she had never seen!... Did not everything happen?... But then,
equally, strange and terrible misfortunes might be lying in wait for
her!... The indescribable sharp savour of life was in her nostrils.

IV

The conversation had turned upon Bradlaugh, the shameless free-thinker,
the man who had known how to make himself the centre of discussion in
every house in England. This was the Bradlaugh year, the apogee of his
notoriety. Dozens of times at the Cedar's meal-table had she heard the
shocking name of Bradlaugh on outraged tongues, but never once had a
word been uttered in his favour. The public opinion of the
boarding-house was absolutely unanimous in reckoning him a scoundrel. In
the dining-room of the Orgreaves the attitude towards him was different.
His free-thought was not precisely defended, but champions of his right
to sit in the House of Commons were numerous. Hilda grew excited, and
even more self-conscious. It was as if she were in momentary expectation
of being challenged by these hardy debaters: "Are not _you_ a
free-thinker?" Her interest was personal; the interest of one in peril.
Compared to the discussions at the Cedars, this discussion was as the
open, tossing, windy sea to a weed-choked canal. The talk veered into
mere profane politics, and Mr. Orgreave, entrenching himself behind an
assumption of careless disdain, was severely attacked by all his sons
except Jimmie, who, above Hilda's left shoulder, pretended to share the
paternal scorn. The indifference of Hilda to politics was complete. She
began to feel less disturbed; she began to dream. Then she suddenly
heard, through her dream, the name of Bradlaugh again; and Edwin
Clayhanger, in response to a direct question from Mr. Orgreave, was
saying:

"You can't help what you believe. You can't make yourself believe
anything. And I don't see why you should, either. There's no virtue in
believing."

And Tom was crying "Hooray!"

Hilda was thunderstruck. She was blinded as though by a mystic
revelation. She wanted to exult, and to exult with all the ardour of her
soul. This truth which Edwin Clayhanger had enunciated she had indeed
always been vaguely aware of; but now in a flash she felt it,