“Woman yield—?” Aaron re-echoed.

“Woman—­and man too.  Yield to the deep power-soul in the individual man, and obey implicitly.  I don’t go back on what I said before.  I do believe that every man must fulfil his own soul, every woman must be herself, herself only, not some man’s instrument, or some embodied theory.  But the mode of our being is such that we can only live and have our being whilst we are implicit in one of the great dynamic modes.  We MUST either love, or rule.  And once the love-mode changes, as change it must, for we are worn out and becoming evil in its persistence, then the other mode will take place in us.  And there will be profound, profound obedience in place of this love-crying, obedience to the incalculable power-urge.  And men must submit to the greater soul in a man, for their guidance:  and women must submit to the positive power-soul in man, for their being.”

“You’ll never get it,” said Aaron.

“You will, when all men want it.  All men say, they want a leader.  Then let them in their souls submit to some greater soul than theirs.  At present, when they say they want a leader, they mean they want an instrument, like Lloyd George.  A mere instrument for their use.  But it’s more than that.  It’s the reverse.  It’s the deep, fathomless submission to the heroic soul in a greater man.  You, Aaron, you too have the need to submit.  You, too, have the need livingly to yield to a more heroic soul, to give yourself.  You know you have.  And you know it isn’t love.  It is life-submission.  And you know it.  But you kick against the pricks.  And perhaps you’d rather die than yield.  And so, die you must.  It is your affair.”

There was a long pause.  Then Aaron looked up into Lilly’s face.  It was dark and remote-seeming.  It was like a Byzantine eikon at the moment.

“And whom shall I submit to?” he said.

“Your soul will tell you,” replied the other.

THE END