want to get rid of you, and you eat your heart out about it. More fool you, that's all I say—more fool you. If you cared for your wife and children half what you care about your Union, you'd be a lot better pleased in the end. But you care about nothing but a lot of ignorant colliers, who don't know what they want except it's more money just for themselves. Self, self, self—that's all it is with them—and ignorance."
"You'd rather have self without ignorance?" he said, smiling finely.
"I would, if I've got to have it. But what I should like to see is a man that has thought for others, and isn't all self and politics."
Her color had risen, her hand trembled with anger as she sewed. A blank look had come over the man's face, as if he did not hear or heed any more. He drank his tea in a long draught, wiped his moustache with two fingers, and sat looking abstractedly at the children.
They had laid all the little packets on the floor, and Millicent was saying:
"Now I'll undo the first, and you can have the second. I'll take this—"
She unwrapped the bit of newspaper and disclosed a silvery ornament for a Christmas tree: a frail thing like a silver plum, with deep rosy indentations on each side.
"Oh!" she exclaimed. "Isn't it lovely!" Her fingers cautiously held the long bubble of silver and glowing rose, cleaving to it with a curious, irritating possession. The man's eyes moved away from her. The lesser child was fumbling with one of the little packets.
"Oh!"—a wail went up from Millicent. "You've taken one!—You didn't wait." Then her voice changed to a motherly admonition, and she began to interfere. "This is the way to do it, look! Let me help you."
But Marjory drew back with resentment.
"Don't, Millicent!—Don't!" came the childish cry. But Millicent's fingers itched.
At length Marjory had got out her treasure—a little silvery
