"No," I said decidedly, "that's not my way." . . .
A thread of smoke ascended from Ewart for a while, like smoke from an altar. . . .
"Everything's a muddle, and you think it isn't. Nobody knows where we are—because, as a matter of fact, we aren't anywhere. Are women property—or are they fellow-creatures? Or a sort of proprietary goddesses? They're so obviously fellow-creatures. You believe in the goddess?"
"No," I said, "that's not my idea."
"What is your idea?"
"Well"
"H'm," said Ewart, in my pause.
"My idea," I said, "is to meet one person who will belong to me—to whom I shall belong—body and soul. No half-gods! Wait till she comes. If she comes at all. . . . We must come to each other young and pure."
"There's no such thing as a pure person or an impure person. . . . Mixed to begin with."
This was so manifestly true that it silenced me altogether.
"And if you belong to her and she to you, Ponderevo—which end's the head?"
I made no answer except an impatient "Oh!"
For a time we smoked in silence. . . .
"Did I tell you, Ponderevo, of a wonderful discovery I've made?" Ewart began presently.
"No," I said, "what is it?"
"There's no Mrs. Grundy."
"No?"
"No! Practically not. I've just thought all that business out. She's merely an instrument, Ponderevo. She's borne the blame. Grundy's a man. Grundy unmasked. Rather lean and out of sorts. Early
