Both laughed.  Then Marcella tried to be serious.

“Well—­I—­I believe—­you have some land?”

“Eight!” he nodded—­“I am a Lincolnshire landowner.  I have about five thousand acres—­enough to be tolerably poor on—­and enough to play tricks with.  I have a co-operative farm, for instance.  At present I have lent them a goodish sum of money—­and remitted them their first half-year’s rent.  Not so far a paying speculation.  But it will do—­some day.  Meanwhile the estate wants money—­and my plans and I want money—­badly.  I propose to make the Labour Clarion pay—­if I can.  That will give me more time for speaking and organising, for what concerns us—­as Venturists—­than the Bar.”

“The Bar?” she said, a little mystified, but following every word with a fascinated attention.

“I made myself a barrister three years ago, to please my mother.  She thought I should do better in Parliament—­if ever I got in.  Did you ever hear of my mother?”

There was no escaping these frank, smiling questions.

“No,” said Marcella, honestly.

“Well, ask Lord Maxwell,” he said, laughing.  “He and she came across each other once or twice, when he was Home Secretary years ago, and she was wild about some woman’s grievance or other.  She always maintains that she got the better of him—­no doubt he was left with a different impression.  Well—­my mother—­most people thought her mad—­perhaps she was—­but then somehow—­I loved her!”

He was still smiling, but at the last words a charming vibration crept into the words, and his eyes sought her with a young open demand for sympathy.

“Is that so rare?” she asked him, half laughing—­instinctively defending her own feeling lest it should be snatched from her by any make-believe.

“Yes—­as we loved each other—­it is rare.  My father died when I was ten.  She would not send me to school, and I was always in her pocket—­I shared all her interests.  She was a wild woman—­but she lived, as not one person in twenty lives.”

Then he sighed.  Marcella was too shy to imitate his readiness to ask questions.  But she supposed that his mother must be dead—­indeed, now vaguely remembered to have heard as much.

There was a little silence.

“Please tell me,” she said suddenly, “why do you attack my straw-plaiting?  Is a co-operative farm any less of a stopgap?”

Instantly his face changed.  He drew up his chair again beside her, as gay and keen-eyed as before.

“I can’t argue it out now.  There is so much to say.  But do listen!  I have a meeting in the village here next week to preach land nationalisation.  We mean to try and form a branch of the Labourers’ Union.  Will you come?”

Marcella hesitated.

“I think so,” she said slowly.

There was a pause.  Then she raised her eyes and found his fixed upon her.  A sudden sympathy—­of youth, excitement, pleasure—­seemed to rise between them.  She had a quick impression of lightness, grace; of an open brow set in curls; of a look more intimate, inquisitive, commanding, than any she had yet met.