"My dear," Rose answered very gravely, "it is the fault of our modern system. It is the fault of capitalism. This is one of the reasons why we are Socialists."
"Then," Mary said, her eyes flashing, her breast heaving, "then, Mr. Rose, I am a Socialist, too—from this day, from this hour."
As she spoke she did not see that Aubrey Flood, the actor-manager, was regarding her with a keen, intense scrutiny. He watched her every movement. He listened to every inflection of her voice, and then—even in that den of horror—he turned aside and smiled quietly to himself.
"Yes," he thought, "Fabian was right. Here, indeed, is the one woman who shall make our play a thing which shall beat at the doors of London like a gong."
Inspector Brown spoke to Mary in his calm official voice.
"Now, what should you think, miss," he said, "this woman—Mrs. Church—pays weekly for this room?"
"Pays?" Mary answered. "Pays? Does she pay for such a room as this?"
The fat woman upon the stool answered in a heavy, thick, watery voice: "Pye, miss? I pye eight shillings a week for this ere room."
Mary started; she could not understand it.