“Is that a testimonial or an accusation?” she asked.
“I think it’s an accusation. It’s inconsistent to be consistent, if you see what I mean.”
“I think I should perhaps see better if you explained.”
Helen Grote considered a moment, half closing her eyes as if to focus her ideas.
“What I mean is this,” she said. “That we are each of us such a bundle of opposite and contradictory tendencies and desires, the results of heredity, if you will, or of environment, that unless we continually did a large quantity of contradictory things, we shouldn’t be consistent with ourselves, or express ourselves. Mr. Stoughton, for instance, expresses himself beautifully: he is a Socialist and says that we have no right to possess anything nice, or to money which we didn’t earn: we are thieves and receivers of stolen goods. I am sure he is sincere in his outrageous belief. But on the other hand, he is clearly very fond of large quantities of food and wine, and likes going to the station in an expensive and stolen motor-car. That again is quite sincere, and he is right to eat and drink the stuff I have stolen. He wouldn’t be consistent with himself if he was not inconsistent. I really believe that means something.”
“Let us go on talking about me,” said Lady Massingberd. “We seem to have strayed from the subject.”
“Not far. I was coming back to you. You are consistent. You are completely convinced that nothing in the world matters two straws, and that the sole object of life is to extract from it all the enjoyment you can.”
“And there you are!” remarked Lord Thorley, shielding his eyes against the glare.
“I don’t think I’m there at all. You make me out not only completely selfish, but also utterly shallow.”
“No, not shallow,” said Lady Grote. “No one with convictions is shallow. You don’t drift in the least, you go steaming away in a well-defined line, with a wake of foam and waves behind you. And occasional corpses which you have thrown overboard,” she added, to complete the picture.