Even Dacre's enthusiasm cooled for a moment before the odd calmness of Geoffrey, who was, as he himself surmised, a man almost without a class and undisturbed by the hopes, fears or prejudices of those who have one.
Dacre walked to and fro with folded arms, while Geoffrey, slipping into his old jacket, which he had been rather surprised to find wrapped round his ancestor's sword, busied himself with the kettle and a bottle he had taken from a cupboard.
"Listen, Ripon—" said Dacre.
"Hold on, hold on, mine ancient friend," said the preoccupied Geoffrey, pouring hot water on the sugar in two glasses; "there's nothing like Irish whiskey when you're talking treason."
"Ah, Geoffrey," said Dacre, sadly, as the friends clinked their glasses, "men can live treason as well as talk it."
"Is that confession or reproach?"
"Reproach, Ripon. The life you live is daily treason to your country. You sit idly by while England descends from the heights of her renown and is clothed in the rags of the banditti who have obtained power over her."
"Banditti—who? The Republicans?"
"Republicans or Anarchists, whatever they be called; the blind and immoral mob that has been misled by wretches to destroy their motherland."
"Look here, Dacre, do you really mean to say that Republicanism is immoral and unnatural?"