"Well, I don't know what you mean," he said at last, angrily; "give it up."
"It's quite simple what I mean. You have inherited your father's property. Your tenants pay you rent, that comes from their labour. Are you going to make no return for your income, and your house, and your leisure?"
"Ah! that's your Socialism!" cried the young fellow, roused by her tone.
"No return? Why, they have the land."
"If I were a thorough-going Socialist," said Marcella, steadily, "I should say to you, Go! The sooner you throw off all ties to your property, the sooner you prove to the world that you and your class are mere useless parasites, the sooner we shall be rid of you. But unfortunately I am not such a good Socialist as that. I waver—I am not sure of what I wish. But one thing I am sure of, that unless people like you are going to treat their lives as a profession, to take their calling seriously, there are no more superfluous drones, no more idle plunderers than you, in all civilised society!"
Was she pelting him in this way that she might so get rid of some of her own inner smart and restlessness? If so, the unlucky Frank could not guess it. He could only feel himself intolerably ill-used. He had meant to pour himself out to her on the subject of Betty and his woes, and here she was rating him as to his duties, of which he had hardly as yet troubled himself to think, being entirely taken up either with his grievances or his enjoyments.
"I'm sure you know you're talking nonsense," he said sulkily, though he shrank from meeting her fiery look. "And if I am idle, there are plenty of people idler than me—people who live on their money, with no land to bother about, and nothing to do for it at all."
"On the contrary, it is they who have an excuse. They have no natural opening, perhaps—no plain call. You have both, and, as I said before, you have no right to take holidays before you have earned them. You have got to learn your business first, and then do it. Give your eight hours' day like other people! Who are you that you should have all the cake of the world, and other people the crusts?"
Frank walked to the window, and stood staring out, with his back turned to her. Her words stung and tingled; and he was too miserable to fight.
"I shouldn't care whether it were cake or crusts," he said at last, in a low voice, turning round to her, "if only Betty would have me."
"Do you think she is any the more likely to have you," said Marcella, unrelenting, "if you behave as a loafer and a runaway? Don't you suppose that Betty has good reasons for hesitating when she sees the difference between you—and—and other people?"