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She
demanded descriptions. She demanded an account of Billy's
furniture, Billy's clothes, Billy's form of exercise. It dawned
upon Benham that for some inexplicable reason she was hostile to
Billy. It was like the unmasking of an ambuscade. He had talked a
lot about Prothero's ideas and the discussions of social reform and
social service that went on in his rooms, for Billy read at unknown
times, and was open at all hours to any argumentative caller. To
Lady Marayne all ideas were obnoxious, a form of fogging; all ideas,
she held, were queer ideas. "And does he call himself a Socialist?"
she asked. "I THOUGHT he would."
"Poff," she cried suddenly, "you're not a SOCIALIST?"
"Such a vague term."
"But these friends of yours--they seem to be ALL Socialists. Red
ties and everything complete."
"They have ideas," he evaded. He tried to express it better. "They
give one something to take hold of."
She sat up stiffly on the garden-seat. She lifted her finger at
him, very seriously. "I hope," she said with all her heart, "that
you will have nothing to do with such ideas.


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