"A Philistine then."
"Neither a Philistine, wholly."
"What then?"
"A product of Philistinism, an Agitator."
Eveleth looked vaguely around over the silent room,—at Wentworth, throned in a stately chair of mahogany and brass that had belonged to the great Napoleon, still crowned with the garland of gold bay leaves he had placed on his head after dinner, half in defiance, half in jest, now sleeping, his chibouk lying between his knees; at the abandoned figures motionless about the bronze brazier; at Aurelian, clothed gloriously in a sleeveless gaberdine of blood-red silk over a white crêpe kimono heavy with embroidery; at his own figure half wrapped in a big mantle of rose-coloured damask. And everywhere the stillness of Oriental sleep. As he looked he said dubiously, "An agitator? Do you think an agitator would do—here? Isn't there rather too much to agitate?"
"Yes, and for that reason I will let him come; as it is, this is almost stagnation. He will amuse me, I feel,—I feel, that in a little while, I—might be bored."
Eveleth sank back resignedly and not without curiosity. Aurelian nodded, and the servant glided away.
"Hello, Aurelian!"