and beautifully towards the men.  She looked at them sharply.  Of course they were happy and content, but there must be better things than that.  Surely one could get nearer to life, one could get more out of life, one could enjoy more and feel more than they would ever do.  Rachel in particular looked so young—­what could she know of life?  She became restless, and getting up, crossed over to sit beside Rachel.  She reminded her that she had promised to join her club.

“The bother is,” she went on, “that I mayn’t be able to start work seriously till October.  I’ve just had a letter from a friend of mine whose brother is in business in Moscow.  They want me to stay with them, and as they’re in the thick of all the conspiracies and anarchists, I’ve a good mind to stop on my way home.  It sounds too thrilling.”  She wanted to make Rachel see how thrilling it was.  “My friend knows a girl of fifteen who’s been sent to Siberia for life merely because they caught her addressing a letter to an anarchist.  And the letter wasn’t from her, either.  I’d give all I have in the world to help on a revolution against the Russian government, and it’s bound to come.”

She looked from Rachel to Terence.  They were both a little touched by the sight of her remembering how lately they had been listening to evil words about her, and Terence asked her what her scheme was, and she explained that she was going to found a club—­a club for doing things, really doing them.  She became very animated, as she talked on and on, for she professed herself certain that if once twenty people—­no, ten would be enough if they were keen—­set about doing things instead of talking about doing them, they could abolish almost every evil that exists.  It was brains that were needed.  If only people with brains—­of course they would want a room, a nice room, in Bloomsbury preferably, where they could meet once a week. . . .

As she talked Terence could see the traces of fading youth in her face, the lines that were being drawn by talk and excitement round her mouth and eyes, but he did not pity her; looking into those bright, rather hard, and very courageous eyes, he saw that she did not pity herself, or feel any desire to exchange her own life for the more refined and orderly lives of people like himself and St. John, although, as the years went by, the fight would become harder and harder.  Perhaps, though, she would settle down; perhaps, after all, she would marry Perrott.  While his mind was half occupied with what she was saying, he thought of her probable destiny, the light clouds of tobacco smoke serving to obscure his face from her eyes.