“Well, I mean it—­about being a beast,” Keith said humbly.  “That’s because I made you cry.”

“Well,” said Jenny, agreeingly, “you can be a beast—­I mean, think you are one.  And if I’m miserable I shall think I’ve been a fool.  But we’ll cut out about forgiving.  Because I shall never really forgive you.  I couldn’t.  It’ll always be there, till I’m an old woman—­”

“Only till you’re happy, dear,” Keith told her.  “That’s all that means.”

“I can’t think like that.  I feel it’s in my bones.  But you’re going away.  Where are you going?  D’you know?  Is it far?”

“We’re going back to the South.  Otherwise it’s too cold for yachting.  And Templecombe wants to keep out of England at the moment.  He’s safe on the yacht.  He can’t be got at.  There’s some wretched predatory woman of title pursuing him....”

“Here ... here!” cried Jenny.  “I can’t understand if you talk pidgin-English, Keith.”

“Well ... you know what ravenous means?  Hungry.  And a woman of title—­you know what a lord is....  Well, and she’s chasing about, dropping little scented notes at every street corner for him.”

“Oh they are awful!” cried Jenny.  “Countesses!  Always in the divorce court, or something.  Somebody ought to stop them.  They don’t have countesses in America, do they?  Why don’t we have a republic, and get rid of them all?  If they’d got the floor to scrub they wouldn’t have time to do anything wrong.”

“True,” said Keith.  “True.  D’you like scrubbing floors?”

“No.  But I do it.  And keep my hands nice, too.”  The hands were inspected and approved.

“But then you’re more free than most people,” Keith presently remarked, in a tone of envy.

“Free!” exclaimed Jenny.  “Me!  In the millinery!  When I’ve got to be there every morning at nine sharp or get the sack, and often, busy times, stick at it till eight or later, for a few bob a week.  And never have any time to myself except when I’m tired out!  Who gets the fun?  Why, it’s all work, for people like me; all work for somebody else.  What d’you call being free?  Aren’t they free?”

“Not one.  They’re all tied up.  Templecombe’s hawk couldn’t come on this yacht without a troop of friends.  They can’t go anywhere they like unless it’s ‘the thing’ to be done.  They do everything because it’s the right thing—­because if they do something else people will think it’s odd—­think they’re odd.  And they can’t stand that!”

“Well, but Keith!  Who is it that’s free?”

“Nobody,” he said.

“I thought perhaps it was only poor people ... just because they were poor.”

“Well, Jenny....  That’s so.  But when people needn’t do what they’re told they invent a system that turns them into slaves.  They have a religion, or they run like the Gadarine swine into a fine old lather and pretend that everybody’s got to do the same for some reason or other.  They call it the herd instinct, and all sorts of names.  But there’s nobody who’s really free.  Most of them don’t want to be.  If they were free they wouldn’t know what to do.  If their chains were off they’d fall down and die.  They wouldn’t be happy if there wasn’t a system grinding them as much like each other as it can.”