“You do talk, Athelny,” said his wife.  “I don’t know what trouble they’re likely to get into so long as they’re steady.  So long as you’re honest and not afraid of work you’ll never be out of a job, that’s what I think, and I can tell you I shan’t be sorry when I see the last of them earning their own living.”

Child-bearing, hard work, and constant anxiety were beginning to tell on Mrs. Athelny; and sometimes her back ached in the evening so that she had to sit down and rest herself.  Her ideal of happiness was to have a girl to do the rough work so that she need not herself get up before seven.  Athelny waved his beautiful white hand.

“Ah, my Betty, we’ve deserved well of the state, you and I. We’ve reared nine healthy children, and the boys shall serve their king; the girls shall cook and sew and in their turn breed healthy children.”  He turned to Sally, and to comfort her for the anti-climax of the contrast added grandiloquently:  “They also serve who only stand and wait.”

Athelny had lately added socialism to the other contradictory theories he vehemently believed in, and he stated now: 

“In a socialist state we should be richly pensioned, you and I, Betty.”

“Oh, don’t talk to me about your socialists, I’ve got no patience with them,” she cried.  “It only means that another lot of lazy loafers will make a good thing out of the working classes.  My motto is, leave me alone; I don’t want anyone interfering with me; I’ll make the best of a bad job, and the devil take the hindmost.”

“D’you call life a bad job?” said Athelny.  “Never!  We’ve had our ups and downs, we’ve had our struggles, we’ve always been poor, but it’s been worth it, ay, worth it a hundred times I say when I look round at my children.”

“You do talk, Athelny,” she said, looking at him, not with anger but with scornful calm.  “You’ve had the pleasant part of the children, I’ve had the bearing of them, and the bearing with them.  I don’t say that I’m not fond of them, now they’re there, but if I had my time over again I’d remain single.  Why, if I’d remained single I might have a little shop by now, and four or five hundred pounds in the bank, and a girl to do the rough work.  Oh, I wouldn’t go over my life again, not for something.”

Philip thought of the countless millions to whom life is no more than unending labour, neither beautiful nor ugly, but just to be accepted in the same spirit as one accepts the changes of the seasons.  Fury seized him because it all seemed useless.  He could not reconcile himself to the belief that life had no meaning and yet everything he saw, all his thoughts, added to the force of his conviction.  But though fury seized him it was a joyful fury.  Life was not so horrible if it was meaningless, and he faced it with a strange sense of power.

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