For the better part of forty hours, Sir Richmond had either been talking to Miss Grammont, or carrying on imaginary conversations with her in her absence, or sleeping and dreaming dreams in which she never failed to play a part, even if at times it was an altogether amazing and incongruous part. And as they were both very frank and expressive people, they already knew a very great deal about each other.

For an American Miss Grammont was by no means autobiographical. She gave no sketches of her idiosyncrasies, and she repeated no remembered comments and prophets of her contemporaries about herself. She either concealed or she had lost any great interest in her own personality. But she was interested in and curious about the people she had met in life, and her talk of them reflected a considerable amount of light upon her own upbringing and experiences. And her liking for Sir Richmond was pleasingly manifest. She liked his turn of thought, she watched him with a faint smile on her lips as he spoke, and she spread her opinions before him carefully in that soft voice of hers like a shy child showing its treasures to some suddenly trusted and favoured visitor.

Their ways of thought harmonized. They talked at first chiefly about the history of the world and the extraordinary situation of aimlessness in a phase of ruin to which the Great War had brought all Europe, if not all mankind. The world excited them both in the same way; as a crisis in which they were called upon to do something—they did not yet clearly know what. Into this topic they peered as into some deep pool, side by side, and in it they saw each other reflected.

The visit to Avebury had been a great success. It had been a perfect springtime day, and the little inn had been delighted at the reappearance of Sir Richmond’s car so soon after its departure. Its delight was particularly manifest in the cream and salad it produced for lunch. Both Miss Grammont and Miss Seyffert displayed an intelligent interest in their food. After lunch they had all gone out to the stones and the wall. Half a dozen sunburnt children were putting one of the partially overturned megaliths to a happy use by clambering to the top of it and sliding on their little behinds down its smooth and sloping side amidst much mirthful squealing.

Sir Richmond and Miss Grammont had walked round the old circumvallation together, but Belinda Seyffert had strayed away from them, professing an interest in flowers. It was not so much that she felt they had to be left together that made her do this as her own consciousness of being possessed by a devil who interrupted conversations.

When Miss Grammont was keenly interested in a conversation, then Belinda had learnt from experience that it was wiser to go off with her devil out of the range of any temptation to interrupt.

“You really think,” said Miss Grammont, “that it would be possible to take this confused old world and reshape it, set it marching towards that new world of yours—of two hundred and fifty million fully developed, beautiful and happy people?”

“Why not? Nobody is doing anything with the world except muddle about. Why not give it a direction?”

“You’d take it in your hands like clay?”

“Obdurate clay with a sort of recalcitrant, unintelligent life of its own.”

Her imagination glowed in her eyes and warmed her voice. “I believe what you say is possible. If people dare.”

“I am tired of following little motives that are like flames that go out when you get to them. I am tired of seeing all the world doing the same. I am tired of a world in which there is nothing great but great disasters. Here is something mankind can attempt, that we can attempt.”

“And will?”

“I believe that as Mankind grows up this is the business Man has to settle down to and will settle down to.”

She considered that.

“I’ve been getting to believe something like this. But—... it frightens me. I suppose most of us have this same sort of dread of taking too much upon ourselves.”

“So we just live like pigs. Sensible little piggywiggys. I’ve got a Committee full of that sort of thing. We live like little modest pigs. And let the world go hang. And pride ourselves upon our freedom from the sin of presumption.

“Not quite that!”

“Well! How do you put it?”

“We are afraid,” she said. “It’s too vast. We want bright little lives of our own.”

“Exactly—sensible little piggy-wiggys.”

“We have a right to life—and happiness.

“First,” said Sir Richmond, “as much right as a pig has to food. But whether we get life and happiness or fail to get them we human beings who have imaginations want something more nowadays.... Of course we want bright lives, of course we want happiness. Just as we want food, just as we want sleep. But when we have eaten, when we have slept, when we have jolly things about us—it is nothing. We have been made an exception of—and got our rations. The big thing confronts us still. It is vast, I agree, but vast as it is it is the thing we have to think about. I do not know why it should be so, but I am compelled by something in my nature to want to serve this idea of a new age for mankind. I want it as my culminating want. I want a world in order, a disciplined mankind going on to greater things. Don’t you?”

“Now you tell me of it,” she said with a smile, “I do.”

“But before—?”

“No. You’ve made it clear. It wasn’t clear before.”

“I’ve been talking of this sort of thing with my friend Dr. Martineau. And I’ve been thinking as well as talking. That perhaps is why I’m so clear and positive.”

“I don’t complain that you are clear and positive. I’ve been coming along the same way.... It’s refreshing to meet you.”

“I found it refreshing to meet Martineau.” A twinge of conscience about Dr. Martineau turned Sir Richmond into a new channel. “He’s a most interesting man,” he said. “Rather shy in some respects. Devoted to his work. And he’s writing a book which has saturated him in these ideas. Only two nights ago we stood here and talked about it. The Psychology of a New Age. The world, he believes, is entering upon a new phase in its history, the adolescence, so to speak, of mankind. It is an idea that seizes the imagination. There is a flow of new ideas abroad, he thinks, widening realizations, unprecedented hopes and fears. There is a consciousness of new powers and new responsibilities. We are sharing the adolescence of our race. It is giving history a new and more intimate meaning for us. It is bringing us into directer relation with public affairs,—making them matter as formerly they didn’t seem to matter. That idea of the bright little private life has to go by the board.”

“I suppose it has,” she said, meditatively, as though she had been thinking over some such question before.

“The private life,” she said, “has a way of coming aboard again.”

Her reflections travelled fast and broke out now far ahead of him.

“You have some sort of work cut out for you,” she said abruptly.

“Yes. Yes, I have.”

“I haven’t,” she said.

“So that I go about,” she added, “like someone who is looking for something. I’d like to know if it’s not jabbing too searching a question at you—what you have found.”

Sir Richmond considered. “Incidentally,” he smiled, “I want to get a lasso over the neck of that very forcible and barbaric person, your father. I am doing my best to help lay the foundation of a scientific world control of fuel production and distribution. We have a Fuel Commission in London with rather wide powers of enquiry into the whole world problem of fuel. We shall come out to Washington presently with proposals.”

Miss Grammont surveyed the landscape. “I suppose,” she said, “poor father IS rather like an unbroken mule in business affairs. So many of our big business men in America are. He’ll lash out at you.”

“I don’t mind if only he lashes out openly in the sight of all men.”

She considered and turned on Sir Richmond gravely.

“Tell me what you want to do to him. You find out so many things for me that I seem to have been thinking about in a sort of almost invisible half-conscious way. I’ve been suspecting for a long time that Civilization wasn’t much good unless it got people like my father under some sort of control. But controlling father—as distinguished from managing him!” She reviewed some private and amusing memories. “He is a most intractable man.”