An exchange of aloof bows followed. And then, although very careful to seem to do nothing of the kind, each measured the other with an eye as hard and bright as a diamond. To neither was the result of this scrutiny exactly pleasant. It came upon Cousin Muriel with a little shock of surprise that “the Chorus Girl” should look just as she did, and that she knew how to bear herself in a way that did not yield an inch to the enemy, yet at the same time scrupulously refrained from offering battle. Here was beauty of a very compelling kind, and in the hostile view of its present beholder something more valuable. The distinguished air, the look of breeding, went some way to excuse a deplorable infatuation. But as far as “the Chorus Girl” herself was concerned, a little over-sensitive as circumstances may have made her on the score of her own dignity, it was far from pleasant to detect in this authentic member of the family that power of conveying subtle insult, without speech or look, which belonged to the two others, presumably her sisters, whom she had met in the Park.
Somehow the girl felt a keen rage within. It may have been the world of unconscious arrogance behind that aloof nod, it may have been the implicit challenge in the lidded glance down the long straight nose. But whatever the cause, Mary suddenly felt a surge of resentment in her very bones.
In the meantime, the People’s Candidate was playing his part to perfection. The flight of time had wrought wonders in this champion of Demos. He was no longer tongue-tied and awkward; even the roll of his “r’s” was so diminished that Ardnaleuchan would hardly have known its child. Everything was in perfect harmony. After a few brief passages with Harriet, audaciously humorous, in which homage was paid to old times, he turned with a sportsman’s eye to exchange a ready quip with Joe and Eliza.
Joe, in his heart, was scandalized. A Tory to the bone, in his view the social hierarchy was part of the cosmic order. It was unchanging, immutable. “Scotchie” was a charlatan, tongue in cheek; a mountebank of a fellow whom it was amazing that honest men, let alone high-born women, could not see through. Joe was determined to have no truck with him, but the People’s Candidate with a bonhomie which the former colleague of the X Division was inclined to regard as mere brazenness, seemed quite determined not to take rebuffs from an old friend.
“You haven’t a vote, Joe, I know,” said Maclean, “but you are a man of influence here and I want you to speak for me with your pals.”
Joe shook a solemn head.
“I don’t believe in your principles,” said he.
The voice, a growl of indignation, struck the ear of Lady Muriel a veritable blow. In spite of “the breadth” she was trying so hard to cultivate, the laws of her being demanded that these humble people should grovel. They were of another caste, another clay; somehow Joe’s blunt skepticism gave her a sense of personal affront.
“You have not a vote, Mr. Kelly,” she interposed, in a sharp tone. “Pray, why didn’t you tell me? A canvasser’s time is valuable.”
“Your ladyship never asked the question.”