he was in the dark as to the inwardness of
the word "Shame." And she said placidly:

"Come along, Stevie. You can't help that."

The docile Stevie went along; but now he went along without pride,
shamblingly, and muttering half words, and even words that would have
been whole if they had not been made up of halves that did not belong to
each other. It was as though he had been trying to fit all the words he
could remember to his sentiments in order to get some sort of
corresponding idea. And, as a matter of fact, he got it at last. He
hung back to utter it at once.

"Bad world for poor people."

Directly he had expressed that thought he became aware that it was
familiar to him already in all its consequences. This circumstance
strengthened his conviction immensely, but also augmented his
indignation. Somebody, he felt, ought to be punished for it--punished
with great severity. Being no sceptic, but a moral creature, he was in a
manner at the mercy of his righteous passions.

"Beastly!" he added concisely.

It was clear to Mrs Verloc that he was greatly excited.

"Nobody can help that," she said. "Do come along. Is that the way
you're taking care of me?"

Stevie mended his pace obediently. He prided himself on being a good
brother. His morality, which was very complete, demanded that from him.
Yet he was pained at the information imparted by his sister Winnie who
was good. Nobody could help that! He came along gloomily, but presently
he brightened up. Like the rest of mankind, perplexed by the mystery of
the universe, he had his moments of consoling trust in the organised
powers of the earth.

"Police," he suggested confidently.

"The police aren't for that," observed Mrs Verloc cursorily, hurrying on
her way.

Stevie's face lengthened considerably. He was thinking. The more
intense his thinking, the slacker was the droop of his lower jaw.

And it was with an aspect of hopeless vacancy that he gave up his
intellectual enterprise.

"Not for that?" he mumbled, resigned but surprised. "Not for that?" He
had formed for himself an ideal conception of the metropolitan police as
a sort of benevolent institution for the suppression of evil. The notion
of benevolence especially was very closely associated with his sense of
the power of the men in blue. He had liked all police constables
tenderly, with a guileless trustfulness. And he was pained. He was
irritated, too, by a suspicion of dupl