Usually the self-proposed “Luther of Socialism”—­ridiculous Lewisham!—­had a thesis or so to maintain, but this night he was depressed and inattentive.  He sat with his legs over the arm of his chair by way of indicating the state of his mind.  He had a packet of Algerian cigarettes (twenty for fivepence), and appeared chiefly concerned to smoke them all before the evening was out.  Bletherley was going to discourse of “Woman under Socialism,” and he brought a big American edition of Shelley’s works and a volume of Tennyson with the “Princess,” both bristling with paper tongues against his marked quotations.  He was all for the abolition of “monopolies,” and the creche was to replace the family.  He was unctuous when he was not pretty-pretty, and his views were evidently unpopular.

Parkson was a man from Lancashire, and a devout Quaker; his third and completing factor was Ruskin, with whose work and phraseology he was saturated.  He listened to Bletherley with a marked disapproval, and opened a vigorous defence of that ancient tradition of loyalty that Bletherley had called the monopolist institution of marriage.  “The pure and simple old theory—­love and faithfulness,” said Parkson, “suffices for me.  If we are to smear our political movements with this sort of stuff ...”

“Does it work?” interjected Lewisham, speaking for the first time.

“What work?”

“The pure and simple old theory.  I know the theory.  I believe in the theory.  Bletherley’s Shelley-witted.  But it’s theory.  You meet the inevitable girl.  The theory says you may meet her anywhen.  You meet too young.  You fall in love.  You marry—­in spite of obstacles.  Love laughs at locksmiths.  You have children.  That’s the theory.  All very well for a man whose father can leave him five hundred a year.  But how does it work for a shopman?...  An assistant master like Dunkerley?  Or ...  Me?”

“In these cases one must exercise restraint,” said Parkson.  “Have faith.  A man that is worth having is worth waiting for.”

“Worth growing old for?” said Lewisham.

“Chap ought to fight,” said Dunkerley.  “Don’t see your difficulty, Lewisham.  Struggle for existence keen, no doubt, tremendous in fact—­still.  In it—­may as well struggle.  Two—­join forces—­pool the luck.  If I saw, a girl I fancied so that I wanted to, I’d marry her to-morrow.  And my market value is seventy non res.”

Lewisham looked round at him eagerly, suddenly interested. “Would you?” he said.  Dunkerley’s face was slightly flushed.

“Like a shot.  Why not?”

“But how are you to live?”

“That comes after.  If ...”

“I can’t agree with you, Mr. Dunkerley,” said Parkson.  “I don’t know if you have read Sesame and Lilies, but there you have, set forth far more fairly than any words of mine could do, an ideal of a woman’s place ...”

“All rot—­Sesame and Lilies,” interrupted Dunkerley.  “Read bits.  Couldn’t stand it.  Never can stand Ruskin.  Too many prepositions.  Tremendous English, no doubt, but not my style.  Sort of thing a wholesale grocer’s daughter might read to get refined. We can’t afford to get refined.”