with her delicate pink flush
“It's want of imagination,” I said.
“To think we are just to enjoy ourselves,” she went on; “just to go on dressing and playing and having meals and spending money!”
She seemed to be referring not simply to my cousins, but to the whole world of industry and property about us.
“But what is one to do?” she asked. “I do wish I had not had to come down. It's all so pointless here. There seems to be nothing going forward, no ideas, no dreams. No one here seems to feel quite what I feel, the sort of need there is for MEANING in things. I hate things without meaning.”
“Don't you do—local work?”
“I suppose I shall. I suppose I must find something. Do you think—if one were to attempt some sort of propaganda?”
“Could you—?” I began a little doubtfully.
“I suppose I couldn't,” she answered,