“I do,” said Eddy simply.
Datcherd stared at him, utterly taken aback.
“You what?”
“I belong to the Primrose League,” Eddy repeated. “Why shouldn’t I?”
Datcherd pulled his startled wits together, and laughed shortly.
“I beg your pardon. The mistake, I suppose, was mine. I had somehow got it into my head that you were a Fabian.”
“So I am,” said Eddy, patiently explaining. “All those old things, you know. And most of the new ones as well. I’m sorry if you didn’t know; I suppose I ought to have mentioned it, but I never thought about it. Does it matter?”
Datcherd was gazing at him with grave, startled eyes, as at a maniac.
“Matter? Well, I don’t know. Yes, I suppose it would have mattered, from my point of view, if I’d known. Because it just means that you’ve been playing when I thought you were in earnest; that, whereas I supposed you took your convictions and mine seriously and meant to act on them, really they’re just a game to you. You take no cause seriously, I suppose.”
“I take all causes seriously,” Eddy corrected him quickly. He got up, and walked about the room, his hands deep in his pockets, frowning a little because life was so serious.