I believe he calls
it a general strike. I don't really know much about it."
Lily pondered that.
"Socialism isn't revolution, mother, is it? But even then--is all
this because grandfather drove his father to--"
"I wish you wouldn't, Lily. Of course it is not that. I daresay
he believes what he preaches. He ought to be put into jail. Why
the country lets such men go around, preaching sedition, I don't
understand."
Lily remembered something else Willy Cameron had said, and promptly
repeated it.
"We had a muzzled press during the war," she said, "and now we've
got free speech. And one's as bad as the other. She must love him
terribly, mother," she added.
But Grace harked back to Suzette, and the last of the Cardews harked
with her. Later on people dropped in, and Lily made a real attempt
to get back into her old groove, but that night, when she went
upstairs to her bedroom, with its bright fire, its bed neatly turned
down, her dressing gown and slippers laid out, the shaded lamps
shining on the gold and ivory of her dressing table, she was
conscious of a sudden homesickness. Homesickness for her bare
little room in the camp barracks, for other young lives, noisy,
chattering, often rather silly, occasionally unpleasant, but young.
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