The tone of conviction disconcerted the fair canvasser. Somehow she had not expected it. In the course of her present ministrations it was the first time she had met that point of view. Laxton’s working-class, which for several days had been honored by her delicate flatteries, had shown such a robust faith in itself and had purred so responsively to her blandishments that she now took for granted that in all circumstances it would fully share her own enthusiasm for it. But this rubicund, coatless Briton, with eyes of half truculent humor, was a little beyond her. Gloves were needed to handle him; otherwise fingers of such flowerlike delicacy stood a chance of being bruised.
“May one ask what you have against them?” lisped the people’s champion, opening large round eyes.
“Nothing particular, miss,” said Joe urbanely. “But you ask me whether I believe in ’em and I say I don’t. Mind you, the people are all right in their place. I’ve not a word to say against ’em personally. Of a Monday morning at Vine Street, when the Court has been swep’ an’ dusted and his Worship has returned from his Sunday in the country, we always try to make ’em welcome. ‘Let ’em all come,’ that’s the motto of the Metropolitan Force. But as for believing in ’em, that’s another story.”
This was rather baffling for the people’s champion. She was at a loss. But her faith was sublime. This odd, crass, heavy-witted plebeian who denied his kind was a sore problem even for the bringer of the light. Still, she stuck to her guns gallantly.
“‘Government of the people, by the people, for the people.’” Lisping the battle cry of Demos she returned stoutly to the charge. Sacred formulas flowed from her lips in a stream of charming pellucidity.
“Ah, you don’t know ’em, miss,” ejaculated Joe, at intervals.
It was a pretty joust; vicarious enthusiasm on the one side, first-hand experience on the other. But Joe was a rock. The fair canvasser took forth every weapon of an elegantly-furnished armory, yet without avail.
“I don’t hold with the people, miss, not in no shape nor form.”
The tone was so final that at last a sense of defeat came upon this Amazon. She was still seated, however, without having quite made up her mind to the inevitable, on her grand chair in the front sitting-room of Number Five, Beaconsfield Villas, when Fate intervened in quite a remarkable way.
All of a sudden, there appeared on the threshold of the open door a figure tall, fine and unheralded. It was that of Harriet Sanderson.