“Mr. Deville spoke of your work,” I continued; “and of course I could see you had been writing. Do you write fiction? I think it is so delightful for women to do anything for themselves—any real work, I mean. Do you mind my asking?”
“I do not write fiction as a rule,” she said, slowly. “I write for the newspapers. I was a correspondent for several years for one of the dailies. I write more now for a purpose. I am one of the ‘abhorred tribe,’ you know—a Socialist, or what people understand as a Socialist. Are you horrified?”
“Not in the least,” I answered her; “only I should like to know more about it. From what I have heard about Socialism I should never have dreamed of associating it with—well, with Dresden cups and saucers, for instance,” I laughed, motioning to her own.
Her eyes twinkled. “Poor child,” she said, “you have all the old-fashioned ideas about us and our beliefs, I suppose. I am not sure that, if you were a properly regulated young lady, you would not get up and walk out of the house.”
A shadow had fallen across the open doorway, and a familiar voice, stern, but tremulous with passion, took up her words.
“That is precisely what my daughter will do, madam! At once, and without delay! Do you hear, Kate?”
I rose to my feet dumb with amazement. My father’s tall figure, drawn to its utmost height, stood out with almost startling vividness against the sunlit space beyond. A deep red flush was on his pale cheeks. His eyes seemed on fire with anger. My hostess rose to her feet with dignity.
“Your daughter is at liberty to remain or go at any time,” she said, coolly. “I presume that I am addressing Mr. Ffolliot?”
She looked over my shoulder towards my father, and their eyes met. I looked from one to the other, conscious that something was passing outside my knowledge—something between those two. Her eyes had become like dull stones. Her face had grown strangely hard and cold. There was a brief period of intense silence, broken only by a slow, monotonous ticking of the hall clock and the flutter of the birds’ wings from amongst the elm trees outside. A breath of wind brought a shower of rain drops down on to the gravel path. A sparrow flew twittering into the hall and out again. Then it came to an end.