She, also, drew her comparison, and the cold and perfect courtier of Colonsay House suffered by it. For the first time she felt in its full strength that instinct of self-sacrifice which lies at the core of every noble nature. The task which Stuart’s mother had offered to her, and in which she had only taken a sentimental interest, now became a fascination. The longing to save this glorious soul, fallen among weeds and briars, to lift it up and wipe away its stains, and set it on its true path again, overcame her like the touch of love; the touch of love overcame her like the longing to save, and her hand trembled in Alistair Stuart’s.
The two Vanes sidled up, anxious to be recognized by their chief.
“So glad you have turned up, Stuart,” bleated the elder. “It’s quite a demonstration, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” Wickham echoed, “it is a blow. I think we are striking a blow.”
He meant at the hated middle classes. It was the only kind of a blow he was ever likely to strike against that or any other enemy.
Stuart heard them with impatience. Somehow the presence of Hero made the two brothers look tawdry and ridiculous with their decadent cant, their untidy hair, and their silly, outlandish neckties. He answered with irony:
“No doubt the middle classes will be frightened when they hear of this bazaar. But you must see that it gets into the papers, otherwise the effect will be lost. Are there any reporters here?”
The brothers looked around a little nervously.
“I hope so,” said Egerton, whose vanity was slightly greater than his cowardice.
“It might vulgarize the thing,” suggested Wickham whose cowardice was slightly greater than his vanity.