It was a terrible moment for Mrs. Carey. Discovery in such a place and at such a time was an appalling thought. Even with Geoffrey alone she would hardly have known how to meet the first surprised glance; but with another, and whom she knew not, the idea was intolerable, impossible.
The men came on slowly; she heard their voices as they passed near the window. Then she recognized Geoffrey's companion, and could she have leaped from the piazza and fled, she would have done so.
Of all the men she knew, the only man she feared, or perhaps respected, was Sir John Dacre. She did not understand him, while he seemed to read her very soul. His presence robbed her of self-confidence, and made her contemptibly conscious of her frivolity, or worse. He was like a touchstone to her—and she never cared to be tested.
As the outer door opened and Geoffrey and Dacre entered the kitchen of the lodge, Mrs. Oswald Carey stepped into the little passage opening on the veranda. She gently lifted the latch of the outer door, but kept the door closed. She carefully closed the inner door and crouched below the opening. If discovered by Geoffrey she would confess that fear of Dacre's presence had made her do this thing.
The conversation of the friends had been earnest, it was clear; and before they had been in the room five minutes Mrs. Carey's fears had given way to her curiosity, and instead of shrinking from the door she raised herself to a kneeling position, so as to be near the opening, and listened with breathless attention.
"The truth is, Dacre," said Geoffrey, "that I am not sure of myself. I don't know that I have any political principles whatever."
"This is not a question of politics, Ripon," answered Dacre, almost sternly; "it is a question, it is the question of the reorganization of the social life of England, which has been overturned and is in danger of being utterly destroyed."
"Well, even for that I am not particularly enlisted. It does not trouble me. Had you not told me about it, I should not have thought that anything very serious was the matter with England, except that we of the titled class have had a tumble and are as poor as the devil. But then some other class has—"
"Stop, Ripon! It is unworthy of you to slight the dignity of England's nobility, however poor we may be."
"We! Why, hang it, Dacre, do I not count myself in? And I do not speak slightingly. I fear I have no class, and therefore no prejudices. I was too young to be a conscious aristocrat before the Revolution, and now I am too old to be a thorough Communist. But go on, Dacre, I know you have something to propose."