As he spoke she had slowly unwound the shawl that tightly bound her head; and the beauty of her face, with its crown of rich dark hair, was before him unobscured, unconfined. She had drawn herself up, her breath was coming and going with slow tensity, and her eyes—those wonderful blue eyes—were blazing full upon him. But she did not speak.
“Well,” demanded Drexel, “what do you say?”
“I say,” said she, and her words came with slow, sharp distinctness, “that you are the most despicable man I ever met!”
“What!” he cried. And he stepped back against the door, as though she had struck him in the face.
The eyes still blazed with awful contempt into his own, and the slow words went on:
“You are a man of great gifts. I see that. Genius, maybe—perhaps great genius. And doubtless you will achieve all you say. But for a man with divine gifts, to devote those divine gifts to gigantic schemes for selfish gain, which means to the despoilment, to the misery, to the crushing down, of his fellows—I repeat, such a man is the most despicable man I ever met!”
The paleness of Drexel’s face began to redden with anger.
“I see,” said he grimly, “that you are one of these socialists!”
“Perhaps,” said she, steadily.
“Yes”—between his angry, clenched teeth. “There are some of your kind even in my country. Disappointed, snivelling failures, snarling at people who have succeeded!” His anger blazed fiercer. “Let me tell you this, young lady. You would not be so contemptuous of people with position, if you had a little of position yourself! Nor of wealth, if you had ever tasted a little of wealth’s comforts!”