horses, tied tail and head, would tramp grandly along the quiet lanes of Eberwich, led by George’s man, or by Tom Mayhew, while in the fresh clean sunlight George would go riding by, two restless nags dancing beside him.
When I came home from France five years after our meeting in London I found him installed in the “Hollies.” He had rented the house from the Mayhews, and had moved there with his family, leaving Oswald in charge of the “Ram.” I called at the large house one afternoon, but George was out. His family surprised me. The twins were tall lads of six. There were two more boys, and Meg was nursing a beautiful baby-girl about a year old. This child was evidently mistress of the household. Meg, who was growing stouter, indulged the little creature in every way.
“How is George?” I asked her.
“Oh, he’s very well,” she replied. “He’s always got something on hand. He hardly seems to have a spare moment; what with his socialism, and one thing and another.”
It was true, the outcome of his visit to London had been a wild devotion to the cause of the down-trodden. I saw a picture of Watt’s “Mammon,” on the walls of the morning-room, and the works of Blatchford, Masterman, and Chiozza Money on the side table. The socialists of the district used to meet every other Thursday evening at the “Hollies” to discuss reform. Meg did not care for these earnest souls.
“They’re not my sort,” she said, “too jerky and bumptious. They think everybody’s slow-witted but
