Mr. Alfred always spoke in a somewhat emphatic first person singular when domestic arrangements were under, discussion; occasionally the habit led to a passing unpleasantness of tone between himself and Mrs. Waltham.  In the present instance, however, nothing of the kind was to be feared; his mother smiled very graciously.

‘I’m glad you thought of it,’ she said.  ’It would have been very lonely for him in his lodgings.’

Neither of the two happened to be regarding Adela, or they would have seen a look of dismay flit across her countenance and pass into one of annoyance.  When the talk had gone on for a few minutes Adela interposed a question.

‘Will Mr. Mutimer stay for tea also, do you think, Alfred?’

‘Oh, of course; why shouldn’t he?’

It is the country habit; Adela might have known what answer she would receive.  She got out of the difficulty by means of a little disingenuousness.

‘He won’t want us to talk about Socialism all the time, will he?’

‘Of course not, my dear,’ replied Mrs. Waltham.  ’Why, it will be Sunday.’ 4

Alfred shouted in mirthful scorn.

’Well, that’s one of the finest things I’ve heard for a long time, mother!  It’ll be Sunday, and therefore we are not to talk about improving the lot of the human race.  Ye gods!’

Mrs. Waltham was puzzled for an instant, but the Puritan assurance did not fail her.

’Yes, but that is only improvement of their bodies, Alfred—­food and clothing.  The six days are for that you know.’

’Mother, mother, you will kill me!  You are so uncommonly funny!  I wonder your friends haven’t long ago found some way of doing without bodies altogether.  Now, I pray you, do not talk nonsense.  Surely that is forbidden on the Sabbath, if only the Jewish one.’

‘Mother is quite right, Alfred,’ remarked Adela, with quiet affimativeness, as soon as her voice could be heard.  ’Your Socialism is earthly; we have to think of other things besides bodily comforts.’

‘Who said we hadn’t?’ cried her brother.  ’But I take leave to inform you that you won’t get much spiritual excellence out of a man who lives a harder life than the nigger-slaves.  If you women could only put aside your theories and look a little at obstinate facts!  You’re all of a piece.  Which of you was it that talked the other day about getting the vicar to pray for rain?  Ho, ho, ho!  Just the same kind of thing.’

Alfred’s combativeness had grown markedly since his making acquaintance with Mutimer.  He had never excelled in the suaver virtues, and now the whole of the time he spent at home was devoted to vociferous railing at capitalists, priests, and women, his mother and sister serving for illustrations of the vices prevalent in the last-mentioned class.  In talking he always paced the room, hands in pockets, and at times fairly stammered in his endeavour to hit upon sufficiently trenchant epithets or comparisons.  When reasoning failed with his auditors, he had recourse to volleys of contemptuous laughter.  At times he lost his temper, muttered words such as ‘fools!’—­’idiots!’ and flung out into the open air.  It looked as if the present evening was to be a stormy one.  Adela noted the presage and allowed herself a protest in limine.