Maltenby was one of those old-fashioned houses where the port is served as a lay sacrament and the call of the drawing-room is responded to tardily. After the departure of the women, Doctor Lennard drew his chair up to Julian’s.
“An interesting face, your dinner companion’s,” he remarked. “They tell me that she is a very brilliant young lady.”
“She certainly has gifts,” acknowledged Julian.
“I watched her whilst she was talking to you,” the Oxford don continued. “She is one of those rare young women whose undoubted beauty is put into the background by their general attractiveness. Lady Maltenby was telling me fragments of her history. It appears that she is thinking of giving up her artistic career for some sort of sociological work.”
“It is curious,” Julian reflected, “how the cause of the people has always appealed to gifted Russians. England, for instance, produces no real democrats of genius. Russia seems to claim a monopoly of them.”
“There is nothing so stimulating as a sense of injustice for bringing the best out of a man or woman,” Doctor Lennard pointed out. “Russia, of course, for many years has been shamefully misgoverned.”
The conversation, owing to the intervention of other of the guests, became general and platitudinal. Soon after, Mr. Stenson rose and excused himself. His secretary; who had been at the telephone, desired a short conference. There was a brief silence after his departure.
“Stenson,” the Oxonian observed, “is beginning to show signs of strain.”
“Why not?” Lord Shervinton pointed out. “He came into office full of the most wonderful enthusiasm. His speeches rang through the world like a clarion note. He converted waverers. He lit fires which still burn. But he is a man of movement. This present stagnation is terribly irksome to him. I heard him speak last week, and I was disappointed. He seems to have lost his inspiration. What he needs is a stimulus of some sort, even of disaster.”
“I wonder,” the Bishop reflected, “if he is really afraid of the people?”