“Not one.  Every man should have security.  But, after all, capital cannot be denied its rights.  It has got rights of some sort, surely?  Socialists would kill the goose that lays the golden eggs; but though they lack power yet to kill the goose, they possess plenty of power to frighten it away to foreign shores, where it can build its nest a bit more hopefully than here.  Many, who scent repudiation and appropriation, are flying already.  Capital is diminishing, and there seems a fair chance of labour being over-coddled, at the expense of capital, when the Liberals come in again.  If that happens, labour is weakened as well as capital.  But both are essential to the power and well-being of the State.  If we ever had another war, which God forbid, labour and capital would have to sink all differences and go to battle together unless we meant to be defeated.  Both are vital to our salvation.”

“Then give labour an interest in the blessing of capital,” she said.  “Open labour’s eyes to the vital values of capital—­its strength as well as weakness.  Let the units of labour share the interests of their employers and each become a capitalist in their own right.  What does it matter where the capital is as long as the nation has got it safe?  You might make England a thousand times richer if all those in the country, who want to save money, had the power to save.”

“How can we?  There’s not enough to go round,” he told her.  But she declared that no argument.

“Then create conditions under which there might be much more.  Let the workers be owners, too.  If the owners only took their ownership in a different spirit and felt no man is more than a trustee for all—­if they were like you, Ray, who are a worker and an owner both, what great things might happen!  Make all industry co-operation, in reality as well as theory, and a real democracy must come out of it.  It’s bound to come.”

“Well, I suppose nothing can help it coming.  We are great on free institutions in this country and they get freer every year.”

So they argued, much at one in heart, and an impartial listener had felt that it was within the power of the woman’s intelligence and the man’s energy and common sense, to help the world as far as individuals can, did chance and the outcome of their union afford them opportunity.

But Estelle knew that good ideas were of little value in themselves.  Seed is of no account if the earth on which it falls be poisoned, and a good idea above all, needs good will to welcome it.  Good will to the inspirations of man is as sunshine, rain, sweet soil to the seed; without good will all thinking must perish, or at best lie dormant.  She wondered how much of good seed had perished under the bad weather of human weakness, prejudice and jealousy.  But she was young, and hope her rightful heritage.  The blessed word ‘reconstruction’ seemed to her as musical as a ring of bells.

“There are some things you never will be able to express in political terms, and life is one of them,” Ernest Churchouse had assured her; but she was not convinced of it.  She still reverenced politics and looked to it to play husbandman, triumph over party and presently shine out, like a universal sun, whose sole warmth was good will to man.