"True. Nor I yours."
"Then I'll come here."
"Bringing the Plato and the folios--?"
"Why not? You can't forbid me my own drawing-room."
"I can run away and leave my crochet-hook behind."
"You'll find me hooked on whenever you return."
"Well, if you're determined--by hook or by crook! But you're not going to
convert me to Socialism?"
"I won't promise."
"You must. I don't mind reading Plato."
"He's worse. He isn't a Christian at all."
"I don't mind that. He's B.C. He couldn't help it. But you Socialists
came after Christ."
"How do you know Socialism isn't a return to Him?"
"Is it?"
"Aha! You are getting interested.... But I hear my mother coming down to
dinner. To be continued in our next. _A demain_, is it not?"
He held out his shapely white hand, and hastened through the conservatory
into the garden.
"Going to dig?" Eileen called after him maliciously.