'There, Litvinoff, it's no good; you'll never convert me. I'm a Radical, not a Socialist. Let's talk about something else.'
'By all means. To return to John Hatfield. I noticed in the mill to-day that he did not participate in the general scowl.'
'No. I don't think he bears me any ill-will. Our relations with the Hatfields are peculiar. When my mother died—it was before my aunt came to live with us—Mrs Hatfield took charge of my brother and me, and was a sort of foster-mother to us. Her daughter Alice was our playfellow, and a dear little girl she was.'
'Was that the girl you said had—well, not acted very wisely?' asked the Count, feeling an insensate longing to talk about Alice, or to hear some one else do so.
'Yes; that was the girl,' said Roland. 'She was as sweet a little girl as you would wish to see.'
Litvinoff mentally endorsed this statement to the full. Aloud he said,—
'What was it—the old story?'
'Yes. She met some fellow at Liverpool; I suppose lost her heart to him, and gave the world for love, and considered it well lost, as they say. Damn the brute! I wish I had the handling of him. I should like to have half an hour with him without the gloves.'
Litvinoff was conscious of an insane desire to give Roland his wish, and try which was the better man, but he said quietly,—
'You don't know him, then? I suppose nothing has been heard or seen of her?'