“I hope you will,” Basset replied. “In the meantime, who was the man you quoted a few minutes ago?”
“Francis Place. He is a good man though not as we”—he touched his threadbare cloth—“count goodness. He is something of a Socialist, something of a Chartist—he might frighten you, Mr. Basset. But he has the love of the people in him.”
“I will see him.”
“He has been a tailor.”
That hit Basset fairly in the face. “Good heavens!” he said. “A tailor?”
“Yes,” Colet replied, smiling. “But a very uncommon tailor. Let me tell you why I quoted him. Because, though he is not a Christian, he has ideals. He aims higher than he can shoot, while the aims of the Manchester League, though I agree with them upon the corn-tax, seem to me to be bounded by the material and warped by their own interests.”
Basset nodded. “You have thought a good deal on these things,” he said.
“I live among the poor. I have them always before me.”
“And I have thought so little that I need time. You must think no worse of me if I wait a while. And now, good-night.”
But the other did not take the hand held out to him. He was staring at the candle. “I am not clear that I have been quite frank with you,” he said awkwardly. “You have offered me the shelter of your house though I am a stranger, Mr. Basset, and though you must suspect that to harbor me may expose you to remark. Well, I may be tempted to avail myself of your kindness. But I cannot do so unless you know more of my circumstances.”