He was watching Osmond narrowly, to weigh the effect of the name. But Osmond's face kept its impressive interest.
"You know who he is," Peter suggested.
"Yes, oh, yes! But that doesn't mean anything to me. Nothing does until I see the man. He works with too big a brush. He is an agitator. He may be Christ or Anti-Christ, but he's an agitator. That's all I know. I can't give a snap judgment of a man that gets whole governments into a huff and knows how to lead a rabble a million strong. So he's her father?"
Peter, unreasonably irritated, pitched upon one word for a cause of war.
"Rabble? What do you mean by that? Labor?"
Osmond smiled broadly and showed his white teeth.
"I'm labor myself," he said. "You know that, boy."
"Then what do you want to talk so for? Rabble!"
"I only meant it in relation to numbers," said Osmond, again irritatingly, in his indifference to all interests outside his dear boy's home-coming. "I'll make it a rabble of kings, if you say so. Folks, Peter, that's what I mean, folks. He deals with them in the mass. That makes me nervous. I can't like it."
"He believes in the equality of man," Peter announced, as he was conscious, rather swellingly. "The downfall of kings, the freedom of the individual."