“Gemma! The very worst bit in the whole thing! I hate that ill-natured yelping at everything and everybody!”
“So do I; but that's not the point. Rivarez has a very disagreeable style, and as a human being he is not attractive; but when he says that we have made ourselves drunk with processions and embracing and shouting about love and reconciliation, and that the Jesuits and Sanfedists are the people who will profit by it all, he's right a thousand times. I wish I could have been at the committee yesterday. What decision did you finally arrive at?”
“What I have come here about: to ask you to go and talk it over with him and persuade him to soften the thing.”
“Me? But I hardly know the man; and besides that, he detests me. Why should I go, of all people?”
“Simply because there's no one else to do it to-day. Besides, you are more reasonable than the rest of us, and won't get into useless arguments and quarrel with him, as we should.”
“I shan't do that, certainly. Well, I will go if you like, though I have not much hope of success.”
“I am sure you will be able to manage him if you try. Yes, and tell him that the committee all admired the thing from a literary point of view. That will put him into a good humour, and it's perfectly true, too.”
The Gadfly was sitting beside a table covered with flowers and ferns, staring absently at the floor, with an open letter on his knee. A shaggy collie dog, lying on a rug at his feet, raised its head and growled as Gemma knocked at the open door, and the Gadfly rose hastily and bowed in a stiff, ceremonious way. His face had suddenly grown hard and expressionless.
“You are too kind,” he said in his most chilling manner. “If you had let me know that you wanted to speak to me I would have called on you.”