do with them; he doesn’t like them.  Even his friends, the people he likes, he gets tired of directly they begin to go under.  You know that.  And it’s dreadful, Peter.  I hate it, being comfortable up there and not seeing and not hearing and not caring.  Seems to me we just live to have a good time.  Well, of course, people ought to do that, it’s the thing to live for, and I usen’t to mind before I was rich, and father and Felicity and you and I had a good time together.  But when you’re rich and among rich people, and have a good time not because you make it for yourself out of all the common things that everyone shares—­the sunshine and the river and the nice things in the streets—­but have a special corner of good things marked off for you, then it gets dreadful.  ’Tisn’t that one thinks one ought to be doing more for other people; I don’t think I’ve that sort of conscience much; only that I don’t belong.  I can’t help thinking of all the down-below people, the disreputable, unlucky people, who fail and don’t get things, and I know that’s where I really belong.  It’s like being born in one family and going and living in another.  You never fit in really; your proper family is calling out to you all the time.  Oh, not only because they aren’t rich and lucky, but because they really suit you best, in little ways as well as big ways.  You understand them, and they understand you.  All the butlers and footmen and lady’s-maids frighten me so; I don’t like telling them to do things; they’re so—­so solemn and respectable.  And I don’t like creatures to be killed, and I don’t like eating them afterwards.  But Denis and his friends and the servants and everyone thinks it’s idiotic to be a vegetarian.  Denis says vegetarians are nearly all cranks and bounders, and long-haired men or short-haired women.  Well, I can’t help it; I s’pose that shows where I really and truly belong, though I don’t like short-haired women; it’s so ugly, and they talk so loud very often.  And there it is again; I dislike short hair ’cause of that, but Denis dislikes it ’cause it isn’t done.  That’s so often his reason; and he means not done by his partic’lar lot of top-room people....  So you see, Peter, I don’t belong there, do I?  I don’t belong any more than you do.”

Peter shook his head.  “I never supposed you did, of course.”

“Well,” she said next, “what you’re thinking now is that Denis wants me.  He doesn’t—­not much.  He’s not awf’ly fond of me, Peter; I think he’s rather tired of me, ’cause I often want to do tiresome things, that aren’t done.  I think he knows I don’t belong.  He’s very kind and pleasant always; but he’d be as happy without me, and much happier with another wife who fitted in more.  He only took me as a sort of luxury; he didn’t really need me.  And you do; you and Thomas.  You want me much more than he ever did, or ever could.  You want me so much that even if Denis did want me a great deal, I should come to you, because you want me more, and because all his life he’s had the things he wanted, and now it’s your turn.  ’Tisn’t fair.  Why shouldn’t you have things too—­you and Thomas?  Thomas and you and I can be happy together with no money and nothing else much; we can make our own good time as we go along, if we have each other.  Oh, Peter, let’s!”