to be a friend to your people and they turn and spit in your face. The governor feels it. I'm afraid it is breaking him up."
"You mean—Labour," said Kit,—"Labour with a big L."
"Of course."
"Well,—why doesn't he lay up the ship, pay off the whole mutinous crew, and retire."
"The Pentreaths don't retire."
"Anyhow—you wouldn't sign on, old chap."
Maurice flinched; he flinched too easily.
"Father and I talked it over. I offered to give up medicine. He was quite frank about it. He said that the modern industrial atmosphere is too beastly—and too humiliating for any man with a sense of fair play. Besides, I don't think there is any future"
"You mean?" said Kit.
"Yes—things are too difficult. We may have to sell this lace."
"Like the old Roman Empire."
"Yes,—breaking up."
The Pentreaths were too disinterested to survive. Sir Gordon's disillusioned dignity, his son's imaginative scrupulousness, flinched before the spoilt and greedy children, and looked towards the shades of some misty Avalon. But there was one young Pentreath,—the baby.
"O,—Molly!"
Maurice was bothered about Molly; he was afraid of Molly. A little savage!
And Kit saw Molly Pentreath as a long-legged, fierce young thing of thirteen, with a queer square head and face, dark and audacious eyes, and wavy and rebellious mouth. She was an extraordinary child,—a little devil. She appeared to combine an unholy insight into her elders' interiors, with a violent lack of respect for anybody or anything. A wild young egoist, a spitfire, she was the one live Pentreath with the spirit to fight and to survive.
She observed Kit in ominous silence for the first two days, and then betrayed her partiality by ragging him, and provoking him to quarrel. She put a live slow-worm in his bed, filled his tennis shoes with flour, and mocked him openly.
Kit laughed.
