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    Delphi Collected Works of Grant Allen (Illustrated)
    Delphi Collected Works of Grant Allen (Illustrated)
    Delphi Collected Works of Grant Allen (Illustrated)
    Ebook12,899 pages210 hours

    Delphi Collected Works of Grant Allen (Illustrated)

    By Grant Allen

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    About this ebook

    The Canadian science writer and novelist, Grant Allen was an early proponent of the theory of evolution. His first books dealt with scientific subjects, being influenced by associationist psychology as expounded by Alexander Bain and by Herbert Spencer. However, as his career developed he became a bestselling novelist of the Victorian era, penning intriguing sensation and science-fiction books. This comprehensive eBook presents Allen’s collected works, with numerous illustrations, rare texts appearing in digital print for the first time, informative introductions and the usual Delphi bonus material. (Version 1)


    * Beautifully illustrated with images relating to Allen’s life and works
    * Concise introductions to the novels and other texts
    * 19 novels, with individual contents tables
    * Features many rare novels appearing for the first time in digital publishing
    * Images of how the books were first published, giving your eReader a taste of the original texts
    * Excellent formatting of the texts
    * Famous works are fully illustrated with their original artwork
    * Special chronological and alphabetical contents tables for the short stories
    * Easily locate the short stories you want to read
    * Includes Allen’s rare poetry collection ‘The Lower Slopes’ – available in no other collection
    * A wide selection of Allen’s non-fiction - spend hours exploring the author’s diverse areas of study
    * Features Edward Clodd’s seminal memoir - discover Allen’s literary life
    * Scholarly ordering of texts into chronological order and literary genres


    Please visit www.delphiclassics.com to browse through our range of exciting titles


    CONTENTS:


    The Novels
    Philistia
    Babylon
    This Mortal Coil
    The White Man’s Foot
    The Jaws of Death
    What’s Bred in the Bone
    The Great Taboo
    Dumaresq’s Daughter
    The Duchess of Powysland
    Recalled to Life
    Blood Royal
    Michael’s Crag
    The Scallywag
    The Woman Who Did
    The British Barbarians
    A Splendid Sin
    Linnet
    Rosalba
    Hilda Wade


    The Shorter Fiction
    Strange Stories
    The Beckoning Hand, and Other Stories
    Ivan Greet’s Masterpiece and Other Stories
    Wednesday the Tenth
    An African Millionaire: Episodes in the Life of the Illustrious Colonel Clay
    Miss Cayley’s Adventures
    Twelve Tales


    The Short Stories
    List of Short Stories in Chronological Order
    List of Short Stories in Alphabetical Order


    The Poetry
    The Lower Slopes


    The Non-Fiction
    The Colour-Sense: Its Origin and Development
    Anglo-Saxon Britain
    Evolutionist at Large
    Flowers and Their Pedigrees
    Biographies of Working Men
    Charles Darwin
    Force and Energy
    Falling in Love
    Science in Arcady
    Post-Prandial Philosophy
    The Mediterranean
    Moorland Idylls
    Florence
    Paris
    Cities of Belgium
    County and Town in England
    Flashlights on Nature
    Side Lights


    The Autobiography
    My First Book


    The Biography
    Grant Allen: A Memoir by Edward Clodd


    Please visit www.delphiclassics.com to browse through our range of exciting titles or to purchase this eBook as a Parts Edition of individual eBooks


    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherPublishdrive
    Release dateOct 8, 2017
    ISBN9781786560957
    Delphi Collected Works of Grant Allen (Illustrated)
    Author

    Grant Allen

    Grant Allen was a Canadian scientific writer and novelist, educated in England. He was a public promoter of the theory of evolution in the second half of the nineteenth century.

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      Delphi Collected Works of Grant Allen (Illustrated) - Grant Allen

      The Collected Works of

      GRANT ALLEN

      (1848-1899)

      Contents

      The Novels

      Philistia

      Babylon

      This Mortal Coil

      The White Man’s Foot

      The Jaws of Death

      What’s Bred in the Bone

      The Great Taboo

      Dumaresq’s Daughter

      The Duchess of Powysland

      Recalled to Life

      Blood Royal

      Michael’s Crag

      The Scallywag

      The Woman Who Did

      The British Barbarians

      A Splendid Sin

      Linnet

      Rosalba

      Hilda Wade

      The Shorter Fiction

      Strange Stories

      The Beckoning Hand, and Other Stories

      Ivan Greet’s Masterpiece and Other Stories

      Wednesday the Tenth

      An African Millionaire

      Miss Cayley’s Adventures

      Twelve Tales

      The Short Stories

      List of Short Stories in Chronological Order

      List of Short Stories in Alphabetical Order

      The Poetry

      The Lower Slopes

      The Non-Fiction

      The Colour-Sense: Its Origin and Development

      Anglo-Saxon Britain

      Evolutionist at Large

      Flowers and Their Pedigrees

      Biographies of Working Men

      Charles Darwin

      Force and Energy

      Falling in Love

      Science in Arcady

      Post-Prandial Philosophy

      The Mediterranean

      Moorland Idylls

      Florence

      Paris

      Cities of Belgium

      County and Town in England

      Flashlights on Nature

      Side Lights

      The Autobiography

      My First Book

      The Biography

      Grant Allen: A Memoir by Edward Clodd

      The Delphi Classics Catalogue

      © Delphi Classics 2017

      Version 1

      The Collected Works of

      GRANT ALLEN

      By Delphi Classics, 2017

      COPYRIGHT

      Collected Works of Grant Allen

      First published in the United Kingdom in 2017 by Delphi Classics.

      © Delphi Classics, 2017.

      All rights reserved.  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form other than that in which it is published.

      ISBN: 978 1 78656 095 7

      Delphi Classics

      is an imprint of

      Delphi Publishing Ltd

      Hastings, East Sussex

      United Kingdom

      Contact: [email protected]

      www.delphiclassics.com

      Parts Edition Now Available!

      Love reading Grant Allen?

      Did you know you can now purchase the Delphi Classics Parts Edition of this author and enjoy all the novels, plays, non-fiction books and other works as individual eBooks?  Now, you can select and read individual novels etc. and know precisely where you are in an eBook.  You will also be able to manage space better on your eReading devices.

      The Parts Edition is only available direct from the Delphi Classics website.

      For more information about this exciting new format and to try free Parts Edition downloads, please visit this link.

      The Novels

      Kingston, Canada West (known as Ontario after Confederation). Born near Kingston in 1848, Grant Allen was the second son of Catharine Ann Grant and the Rev. Joseph Antisell Allen, a Protestant minister from Dublin, Ireland. His mother was a daughter of the fifth Baron de Longueuil.

      Philistia

      Allen settled into a career in journalism in the mid 1870’s, learning to perfect his craft on articles of science, sociology and literature. He also became popular for expounding various aspects of Darwinism. Passionate about evolutionary biology Allen formed a close relationship with Herbert Spencer, the greatest of living philosophers. Allen loved to talk about any and all subjects, often described by his peers as being most passionate and imaginative, with an endless curiosity and charm. He would stay up till all hours of the night, talking and munching on biscuits while discussing evolutionary doctrine and Darwinism.

      Allen wrote of his first novel, Philistia (1884), I put my whole soul into it…. I didn’t write hastily, I satisfied utterly my own critical faculty, and I can’t do any better.  The narrative concerns the three Le Breton brothers: Ernest, the high-minded socialist; Herbert, the cynic and cad; and the saintly Ronald. The brothers are about to leave Oxford and make their way into the mundane Philistine world. Other characters include Lady Hilda Tregellis, a bold and bored young aristocrat eager to marry someone ‘different’, and Arthur Berkeley, a composer of comic operas and the first in a long line of Allen’s self-sacrificing heroes that love from afar.

      On the whole, the novel was criticised for its ‘smart’ and implausible dialogue, as the characters tend to lecture each other for whole paragraphs at a time. Another bone of contention with critics was the ‘childish’ sentimentality of the love relationships. Allen was obliged by the publisher, Bradbury Evans and Co., to substitute a highly inappropriate happy ending. After Philistia failed to win critical acclaim, Allen resolved to take the downward path into middlebrow, sensational fiction. He later claimed he wrote nothing else with the same commitment, until The Woman Who Did.

      The first edition’s title page

      CONTENTS

      CHAPTER I.

      CHAPTER II.

      CHAPTER III.

      CHAPTER IV.

      CHAPTER V.

      CHAPTER VI.

      CHAPTER VII.

      CHAPTER VIII.

      CHAPTER IX.

      CHAPTER X.

      CHAPTER XI.

      CHAPTER XII.

      CHAPTER XIII.

      CHAPTER XIV.

      CHAPTER XV.

      CHAPTER XVI.

      CHAPTER XVII.

      CHAPTER XVIII.

      CHAPTER XIX.

      CHAPTER XX.

      CHAPTER XXI.

      CHAPTER XXII.

      CHAPTER XXIII.

      CHAPTER XXIV.

      CHAPTER XXV.

      CHAPTER XXVI.

      CHAPTER XXVII.

      CHAPTER XXVIII.

      CHAPTER XXIX.

      CHAPTER XXX.

      CHAPTER XXXI.

      CHAPTER XXXII.

      CHAPTER XXXIII.

      CHAPTER XXXIV.

      CHAPTER XXXV.

      CHAPTER XXXVI.

      CHAPTER XXXVII.

      A later Yellowback edition of the novel

      CHAPTER I.

      CHILDREN OF LIGHT.

      It was Sunday evening, and on Sundays Max Schurz, the chief of the London Socialists, always held his weekly receptions. That night his cosmopolitan refugee friends were all at liberty; his French disciples could pour in from the little lanes and courts in Soho, where, since the Commune, they had plied their peaceful trades as engravers, picture-framers, artists’-colourmen, models, pointers, and so forth — for most of them were hangers-on in one way or another of the artistic world; his German adherents could stroll round, pipe in mouth, from their printing-houses, their ham-and-beef shops, or their naturalists’ chambers, where they stuffed birds or set up exotic butterflies in little cabinets — for most of them were more or less literary or scientific in their pursuits; and his few English sympathisers, chiefly dissatisfied philosophical Radicals of the upper classes, could drop in casually for a chat and a smoke, on their way home from the churches to which they had been dutifully escorting their un-emancipated wives and sisters. Max Schurz kept open house for all on Sunday evenings, and there was not a drawing-room in London better filled than his with the very advanced and not undistinguished set who alone had the much-prized entrée of his exclusive salon.

      The salon itself did not form any component part of Max Schurz’s own private residence in any way. The great Socialist, the man whose mandates shook the thrones of Russia and Austria, whose movements spread terror in Paris and Berlin, whose dictates were even obeyed in Kerry and in Chicago, occupied for his own use two small rooms at the top of a shabby composite tenement in a doubtful district of Marylebone. The little parlour where he carried on his trade of a microscope-lens grinder would not have sufficed to hold one-tenth of the eager half-washed crowd that pressed itself enthusiastically upon him every Sunday. But a large room on the ground floor of the tenement, opening towards the main street, was used during the week by one of his French refugee friends as a dancing-saloon; and in this room on every Sunday evening the uncrowned king of the proletariate Socialists was permitted to hold his royal levees. Thither all that was best and truest in the socially rebellions classes domiciled in London used to make its way; and there men calmly talked over the ultimate chances of social revolutions which would have made the hair of respectable Philistine Marylebone stand stiffly on end, had it only known the rank political heresies that were quietly hatching in its unconscious midst.

      While Max Schurz’s hall was rapidly filling with the polyglot crowd of democratic solidarists, Ernest Le Breton and his brother were waiting in the chilly little drawing-room at Epsilon Terrace, Bayswater, for the expected arrival of Harry Oswald. Ernest had promised to introduce Oswald to Max Schurz’s reception; and it was now past eight o’clock, getting rather a late hour for those simple-minded, early-rising Communists. ‘I’m afraid, Herbert,’ said Ernest to his brother, ‘he forgets that Max is a working-man who has to be at his trade again punctually by seven o’clock to-morrow. He thinks he’s going out to a regular society At Home, where ten o’clock’s considered just the beginning of the evening. Max won’t at all like his turning up so late; it smells of non-productivity.’

      ‘If Herr Schurz wants to convert the world,’ Herbert answered chillily, rolling himself a tiny cigarette, ‘he must convince the unproductive as well as the proletariate before he can set things fairly on the roll for better arrangement. The proletariate’s all very well in its way, no doubt, but the unproductive happen to hold the key of the situation. One convert like you or me is worth a thousand ignorant East-end labourers, with nothing but their hands and their votes to count upon.’

      ‘But you are not a convert, Herbert.’

      ‘I didn’t say I was. I’m a critic. There’s no necessity to throw oneself open-armed into the embrace of either party. The wise man can wait and watch the progress of the game, backing the winner for the time being at all the critical moments, and hedging if necessary when the chances turn momentarily against the favourite. There’s a ring at the bell: that’s Oswald; let’s go down to the door to meet him.’

      Ernest ran down the stairs rapidly, as was his wont; Herbert followed in a more leisurely fashion, still rolling the cigarette between his delicate finger and thumb. ‘Goodness gracious, Oswald!’ Ernest exclaimed as his friend stepped in, ‘why, you’ve actually come in evening dress! A white tie and all! What on earth will Max say? He’ll be perfectly scandalised at such a shocking and unprecedented outrage. This will never do; you must dissemble somehow or other.’

      Oswald laughed. ‘I had no idea,’ he said, ‘Herr Schurz was such a truculent sans-culotte as that comes to. As it was an evening reception I thought, of course, one ought to turn up in evening clothes.’

      ‘Evening clothes! My dear fellow, how on earth do you suppose a set of poor Leicester Square outlaws are going to get themselves correctly set up in black broadcloth coats and trousers? They might wash their white ties themselves, to be sure; they mostly do their own washing, I believe, in their own basins.’ (‘And not much at that either,’ put in Herbert, parenthetically.) ‘But as to evening clothes, why, they’d as soon think of arraying themselves for dinner in full court dress as of putting on an obscurantist swallow-tail. It’s the badge of a class, a distinct aristocratic outrage; we must alter it at once, I assure you, Oswald.’

      ‘At any rate,’ said Oswald laughing, ‘I’ve had the pleasure of finding myself accused for the first time in the course of my existence of being aristocratic. It’s quite worth while going to Max Schurz’s once in one’s life, if it were only for the sake of that single new sensation.’

      ‘Well, my dear fellow, we must rectify you, anyhow, before you go. Let me see; luckily you’ve got your dust-coat on, and you needn’t take that off; it’ll do splendidly to hide your coat and waistcoat. I’ll lend you a blue tie, which will at once transform your upper man entirely. But you show the cloven hoof below; the trousers will surely betray you. They’re absolutely inadmissible under any circumstances whatsoever, as the Court Circular says, and you must positively wear a coloured pair of Herbert’s instead of them. Run upstairs quickly, there’s a good fellow, and get rid of the mark of the Beast as fast as you can.’

      Oswald did as he was told without demur, and in about a minute more presented himself again, with the mark of the Beast certainly most effectually obliterated, at least so far as outer appearance went. His blue tie, light dust-coat, and borrowed grey trousers, made up an ensemble much more like an omnibus conductor out for a holiday than a gentleman of the period in correct evening dress. ‘Now mind,’ Ernest said seriously, as he opened the door, ‘whatever you do, Oswald, if you stew to death for it — and Schurz’s rooms are often very close and hot, I can assure you — don’t for heaven’s sake go and unbutton your dust-coat. If you do they’ll see at once you’re a wolf in sheep’s clothing, and I shouldn’t be at all surprised if they were to turn and rend you. At least, I’m sure Max would be very much annoyed with me for unsocially introducing a plutocratic traitor into the bosom of the fold.’

      They walked along briskly in the direction of Marylebone, and stopped at last at a dull, yellow-washed house, which bore on its door a very dingy brass plate, inscribed in red letters, ‘M. et Mdlle. Tirard. Salon de Danse.’ Ernest opened the door without ringing, and turned down the passage towards the salon. ‘Remember,’ he said, turning to Harry Oswald by way of a last warning, with his hand on the inner door-handle, ‘coûte que coûte, my dear fellow, don’t on any account open your dust-coat. No anti-social opinions; and please bear in mind that Max is, in his own way, a potentate.’

      The big hall, badly lighted by a few contribution candles (for the whole colony subscribed to the best of its ability for the support of the weekly entertainment), was all alive with eager figures and the mingled busy hum of earnest conversation. A few chairs ranged round the wall were mostly occupied by Mdlle. Tirard and the other ladies of the Socialist party; but the mass of the guests were men, and they were almost all smoking, in utter indifference to the scanty presence of the fair sex. Not that they were intentionally rude or boorish; that they never were; except where an emperor or an aristocrat is concerned, there is no being on earth more courteous, kindly, and considerate for the feelings of others than your exiled Socialist. He has suffered much himself in his own time, and so miseris succurrere discit. Emperors he mentally classes with cobras, tarantulas, and scorpions, as outside the pale of humanitarian sympathies altogether; but, with this slight political exception, he is the broadest and tenderest and most catholic in his feelings of all living breathing creatures. However, the ladies of his party have all been brought up from their childhood onward in a mingled atmosphere of smoke and democracy; so that he no more thinks of abstaining from tobacco in their presence than he thinks of commiserating the poor fish for being so dreadfully wet, or the unfortunate mole for his unpleasantly slimy diet of live earthworms.

      ‘Herr Schurz,’ said Ernest, singling out the great leader in the gloom immediately, ‘I’ve brought my brother Herbert here, whom you know already, to see you, as well as another Oxford friend of mind, Mr. Harry Oswald, Fellow and Lecturer of Oriel. He’s almost one of us at heart, I’m happy to say, and at any rate I’m sure you’ll be glad to make his acquaintance.’

      The little spare wizened-up grey man, in the threadbare brown velveteen jacket, who stood in the middle of the hall, caught Ernest’s hand warmly, and held it for a moment fettered in his iron grip. There was an honesty in that grip and in those hazy blue-spectacled eyes that nobody could for a second misunderstand. If an emperor had been introduced to Max Schurz he might have felt a little abashed one minute at the old Socialist’s royal disdain, but he could not have failed to say to himself as he looked at him from head to foot, ‘Here, at least, is a true man.’ So Harry Oswald felt, as the spare grey thinker took his hand in his, and grasped it firmly with a kindly pressure, but less friendly than that with which he had greeted his known admirer, Ernest Le Breton. As for Herbert, he merely bowed to him politely from a little distance; and Herbert, who had picked up at once with a Polish exile in a corner, returned the bow frigidly without coming up to the host himself at all for a moment’s welcome.

      ‘I’m always pleased to meet friends of the cause from Oxford,’ Herr Schurz said, in almost perfect English. ‘We want recruits most of all among the thinking classes. If we are ever to make headway against the banded monopolies — against the place-holders, the land-grabbers, the labour-taxers, the robbers of the poor — we must first secure the perfect undivided confidence of the brain-workers, the thinkers, and the writers. At present everything is against us; we are but a little leaven, trying vainly in our helpless fashion to leaven the whole lump. The capitalist journals carry off all the writing talent in the world; they are timid, as capital must always be; they tremble for their tens of thousands a year, and their vast circulations among the propertied classes. We cannot get at the heart of the people, save by the Archimedean lever of the thinking world. For that reason, my dear Le Breton, I am always glad to muster here your Oxford neophytes.’

      ‘And yet, Herr Schurz,’ said Ernest gently, ‘you know we must not after all despair. Look at the history of your own people! When the cause of Jehovah seemed most hopeless, there were still seven thousand left in Israel who had not bowed the knee to Baal. We are gaining strength every day, while they are losing it.’

      ‘Ah yes, my friend. I know that too,’ the old man answered, with a solemn shake of the head; ‘but the wheels move slowly, they move slowly — very surely, but oh, so slowly. You are young, friend Ernest, and I am growing old. You look forward to the future with hope; I look back to the past with regret: so many years gone, so little, so very little done. It will come, it will come as surely as the next glacial period, but I shall not live to see it. I stand like Moses on Pisgah; I see the promised land before me; I look down upon the equally allotted vineyards, and the glebe flowing with milk and honey in the distance; but I shall not lead you into it; I shall not even lead you against the Canaanites; another than I must lead you in. But I am an old man, Mr. Oswald, an old man now, and I am talking all about myself — an anti-social trick we have inherited from our fathers. What is your friend’s special line at Oxford, did you say, Ernest?’

      ‘Oswald is a mathematician, sir,’ said Ernest, ‘perhaps the greatest mathematician among the younger men in the whole University.’

      ‘Ah! that is well. We want exact science. We want clear and definite thinking. Biologists and physicists and mathematicians, those are our best recruits, you may depend upon it. We need logic, not mere gas. Our French friends and our Irish friends — I have nothing in the world to say against them; they are useful men, ardent men, full of fire, full of enthusiasm, ready to do and dare anything — but they lack ballast. You can’t take the kingdom of heaven by storm. The social revolution is not to be accomplished by violence, it is not even to be carried by the most vivid eloquence; the victory will be in the end to the clearest brain and the subtlest intellect. The orthodox political economists are clever sophists; they mask and confuse the truth very speciously; we must have keen eyes and sharp noses to spy out and scent out their tortuous fallacies. I’m glad you’re a mathematician, Mr. Oswald. And so you have thought on social problems?’

      ‘I have read Gold and the Proletariate,’ Oswald answered modestly, ‘and I learned much from it, and thought more. I won’t say you have quite converted me, Herr Schurz, but you have given me plenty of food for future reflection.’

      ‘That is well, said the old man, passing one skinny brown hand gently up and down over the other. ‘That is well. There’s no hurry. Don’t make up your mind too fast. Don’t jump at conclusions. It’s intellectual dishonesty to do that. Wait till you have convinced yourself. Spell out your problems slowly; they are not easy ones; try to see how the present complex system works; try to probe its inequalities and injustices; try to compare it with the ideal commonwealth: and you’ll find the light in the end, you’ll find the light.’

      As he spoke, Herbert Le Breton lounged up quietly from his farther corner towards the little group. ‘Ah, your brother, Ernest!’ said Max Schurz, drawing himself up a little more stiffly; ‘he has found the light already, I believe, but he neglects it; still he is not with us, and he that is not with us is against us. You hold aloof always, Mr. Herbert, is it not so?’

      ‘Well, not quite aloof, Herr Schurz, I’m certain, but not on your side exactly either. I like to look on and hold the balance evenly, not to throw my own weight too lightly into either stale. The objective attitude of the mere spectator is after all the right one for an impartial philosopher to take up.’

      ‘Ah, Mr. Herbert, this philosophy of your Oxford contemplative Radicals is only another name for a kind of social selfishness, I fancy,’ said the old man solemnly. ‘It seems to me your head is with us, but your heart, your heart is elsewhere.’

      Herbert Le Breton played a moment quietly with the Roman aureus of Domitian on his watch-chain; then he said slowly in his clear cold voice, ‘There may be something in that, no doubt, Herr Schurz, for each of us has his own game to play, and while the world remains unreformed, he must play it on his own gambit to a great extent, without reference to the independent game of others. We all agree that the board is too full of counters, and as each counter is not responsible for its own presence and position on the board, having been put there without previous consultation by the players, we must each do the best we can for ourselves in our own fashion. My sympathies, as you say, are on your side, but perhaps my interests lie the other way, and after all, till you start your millennium, we must all rattle along as well as we can in the box together, jarring against one another in our old ugly round of competition, and supply and demand, and survival of the fittest, and mutual accommodation, and all the rest of it, to the end of the chapter. Every man for himself and God for us all, you know. You have the logic, to be sure, Herr Schurz, but the monopolists have the law and the money.’

      ‘Ah, yes,’ said the old Socialist grimly; ‘Demas, Demas; he and his silver mine; you remember your Bunyan, don’t you? Well, all faiths and systems have their Demases. The cares of this world and the deceitfulness of riches. He’s bursar of his college, isn’t he, Ernest? I thought so. He had the bag, and bare what was put therein. A dangerous office, isn’t it, Mr. Oswald? A very dangerous office. You can’t touch pitch or property without being defiled.’

      ‘You at least, sir, said Ernest, reverentially, ‘have kept yourself unspotted from the world.’

      The old man sighed, and turned for a moment to speak in French to a tall, big-bearded new-comer who advanced to meet him. ‘Impossible!’ he said quickly; ‘I am truly distressed to hear it. It is very imprudent, very unnecessary.’

      ‘What is the news?’ asked Ernest, also in French.

      The new-comer answered him with a marked South Russian accent. ‘There has been another attempt on the life of Alexander Nicolaiovitch.’

      ‘You don’t mean to say so!’ cried Ernest in surprise.

      ‘Yes, I do,’ replied the Russian, ‘and it has nearly succeeded too.’

      ‘An attempt on whom?’ asked Oswald, who was new to the peculiar vocabulary of the Socialists, and not particularly accustomed to following spoken French.

      ‘On Alexander Nicolaiovitch,’ answered the red-bearded stranger.

      ‘Not the Czar?’ Oswald inquired of Ernest.

      ‘Yes, the one whom you call Czar,’ said the stranger, quickly, in tolerable English. The confusion of tongues seemed to be treated as a small matter at Max Schurz’s receptions, for everybody appeared to speak all languages at once, in the true spirit of solidarity, as though Babel had never been.

      Oswald did not attempt to conceal a slight gesture of horror. The tall Russian looked down upon him commiseratingly. ‘He is of the Few?’ he asked of Ernest, that being the slang of the initiated for a member of the aristocratic and capitalist oligarchy.

      ‘Not exactly,’ Ernest answered with a smile; ‘but he has not entirely learned the way we here regard these penal measures. His sympathies are one-sided as to Alexander, no doubt. He thinks merely of the hunted, wretched life the man bears about with him, and he forgets poor bleeding, groaning, down-trodden, long-suffering Russia. It is the common way of Englishmen. They do not realise Siberia and Poland and the Third Section, and all the rest of it; they think only of Alexander as of the benevolent despot who freed the serf and befriended the Bulgarian. They never remember that they have all the freedom and privileges themselves which you poor Russians ask for in vain; they do not bear in mind that he has only to sign his name to a constitution, a very little constitution, and he might walk abroad as light-hearted in St. Petersburg to-morrow as you and I walk in Regent Street to-day. We are mostly lopsided, we English, but you must bear with us in our obliquity; we have had freedom ourselves so long that we hardly know how to make due allowance for those unfortunate folks who are still in search of it.’

      ‘If you had an Alexander yourselves for half a day,’ the Russian said fiercely, turning to Oswald, ‘you would soon see the difference. You would forget your virtuous indignation against Nihilist assassins in the white heat of your anger against unendurable tyranny. You had a King Charles in England once — the mere shadow of a Russian Czar — and you were not so very ceremonious with him, you order-loving English, after all.’

      ‘It is a foolish thing, Borodinsky,’ said Max Schurz, looking up from the long telegram the other had handed him, ‘and I told Toroloff as much a fortnight ago, when he spoke to me about the matter. You can do no good by these constant attacks, and you only rouse the minds of the oligarchy against you by your importunity. Bloodshed will avail us nothing; the world cannot be regenerated by a baptism like that. Every peasant won over, every student enrolled, every mother engaged to feed her little ones on the gospel of Socialism together with her own milk, is worth a thousand times more to us and to the people than a dead Czar. If your friends had really blown him up, what then? You would have had another Czar, and another Third Section, and another reign of terror, and another raid and massacre; and we should have lost twenty good men from our poor little side for ever. We must not waste the salt of the earth in that reckless fashion. Besides, I don’t like this dynamite. It’s a bad argument, it smacks too much of the old royal and repressive method. You know the motto Louis Quatorze used to cast on his bronze cannon— Ultima ratio regum. Well, we Socialists ought to be able to find better logic for our opponents than that, oughtn’t we?’

      ‘But in Russia,’ cried the bearded man hotly, ‘in poor stricken-down groaning Russia, what other argument have they left us? Are we to be hunted to death without real law or trial, tortured into sham confessions, deluded with mock pardons, arraigned before hypocritical tribunals, ensnared by all the chicanery, and lying, and treachery, and ferreting of the false bureaucracy, with its spies, and its bloodhounds, and its knout-bearing police-agents; and then are we not to make war the only way we can — open war, mind you, with fair declaration, and due formalities, and proper warning beforehand — against the irresponsible autocrat and his wire-pulled office-puppets who kill us off mercilessly? You are too hard upon us, Herr Schurz; even you yourself have no sympathy at all for unhappy Russia.’

      The old man looked up at him tenderly and regretfully. ‘My poor Borodinsky,’ he said in a gentle tremulous voice, ‘I have indeed sympathy and pity in abundance for you. I do not blame you; you will have enough and to spare to do that, even here in free England; I would not say a harsh word against you or your terrible methods for all the world. You have been hard-driven, and you stand at bay like tigers. But I think you are going to work the wrong way, not using your energies to the best possible advantage for the proletariate. What we have really got to do is to gain over every man, woman, and child of the working-classes individually, and to array on our side all the learning and intellect and economical science of the thinking classes individually; and then we can present such a grand united front to the banded monopolists that for very shame they will not dare to gainsay us. Indeed, if it comes to that, we can leave them quietly alone, till for pure hunger they will come and beg our assistance. When we have enticed away all the workmen from their masters to our co-operative factories, the masters may keep their rusty empty mills and looms and engines to themselves as long as they like, but they must come to us in the end, and ask us to give them the bread they used to refuse us. For my part, I would kill no man and rob no man; but I would let no man kill or rob another either.’

      ‘And how about Alexander Nicolaiovitch, then?’ persisted the Russian, eagerly. ‘Has he killed none in his loathsome prisons and in his Siberian quicksilver mines? Has he robbed none of their own hardly got earnings by his poisoned vodki and his autocratically imposed taxes and imposts? Who gave him an absolute hereditary right to put us to death, to throw us in prison, to take our money from us against our will and without our leave, to treat us as if we existed, body and soul, and wives and children, only as chattels for the greater glory of his own orthodox imperial majesty? If we may justly slay the highway robber who meets us, arms in hand, in the outskirts of the city, and demands of us our money or our life, may we not justly slay Alexander Nicolaiovitch, who comes to our homes in the person of his tax-gatherers to take the bread out of our children’s mouths and to help himself to whatever he chooses by the divine right of his Romanoff heirship? I tell you, Herr Max, we may blamelessly lie in wait for him wherever we find him, and whoso says us nay is siding with the wolf against the lambs, with the robber and the slayer against the honest representative of right and justice.’

      ‘I never met a Nihilist before,’ said Oswald to Ernest, in a half-undertone,’ and it never struck me to think what they might have to say for themselves from their own side of the question.’

      ‘That’s one of the uses of coming here to Herr Schurz’s,’ Ernest answered quickly. ‘You may not agree with all you hear, but at least you learn to see others as they see themselves; whereas if you mix always in English society, and read only English papers, you will see them only as we English see them.’

      ‘But just fancy,’ Oswald went on, as they both stood back a little to make way for others who wished for interviews with the great man, ‘just fancy that this Borodinsky, or whatever his name may be, has himself very likely helped in dynamite plots, or manufactured nitro-glycerine cartridges to blow up the Czar; and yet we stand here talking with him as coolly as if he were an ordinary respectable innocent Englishman.’

      ‘What of that?’ Ernest answered, smiling. ‘Didn’t we meet Prince Strelinoffsky at Oriel last term, and didn’t we talk with him too, as if he was an honest, hard-working, bread-earning Christian? and yet we knew he was a member of the St. Petersburg office clique, and at the bottom of half the trouble in Poland for the last ten years or so. Grant even that Borodinsky is quite wrong in his way of dealing with noxious autocrats, and yet which do you think is the worst criminal of the two — he with his little honest glazier’s shop in a back slum of Paddington, or Strelinoffsky with his jewelled fingers calmly signing accursed warrants to send childing Polish women to die of cold and hunger and ill-treatment on the way to Siberia?’

      ‘Well, really, Le Breton, you know I’m a passably good Radical, but you’re positively just one stage too Radical even for me.’

      ‘Come here oftener,’ answered Ernest; ‘and perhaps you’ll begin to think a little differently about some things.’

      An hour later in the evening Max Schurz found Ernest alone in a quiet corner. ‘One moment, my dear Le Breton,’ he said; ‘you know I always like to find out all about people’s political antecedents; it helps one to fathom the potentialities of their characters. From what social stratum, now, do we get your clever friend, Mr. Oswald?’

      ‘His father’s a petty tradesman in a country town in Devonshire, I believe,’ Ernest answered; ‘and he himself is a good general democrat, without any very pronounced socialistic colouring.’

      ‘A petty tradesman! Hum, I thought so. He has rather the mental bearing and equipment of a man from the petite bourgeoisie. I have been talking to him, and drawing him out. Clever, very, and with good instincts, but not wholly and entirely sound. A fibre wrong somewhere, socially speaking, a false note suspected in his ideas of life; too much acquiescence in the thing that is, and too little faith or enthusiasm for the thing that ought to be. But we shall make something of him yet. He has read Gold and understands it. That is already a beginning. Bring him again. I shall always be glad to see him here.’

      ‘I will,’ said Ernest, ‘and I believe the more you know him, Herr Max, the better you will like him.’

      ‘And what did you think of the sons of the prophets?’ asked Herbert Le Breton of Oswald as they left the salon at the close of the reception.

      ‘Frankly speaking,’ answered Oswald, looking half aside at Ernest, ‘I didn’t quite care for all of them — the Nihilists and Communards took my breath away at first; but as to Max Schurz himself I think there can be only one opinion possible about him.’

      ‘And that is —— ?’

      ‘That he’s a magnificent old man, with a genuine apostolic inspiration. I don’t care twopence whether he is right or wrong, but he’s a perfectly splendid old fellow, as honest and transparent as the day’s long. He believes in it all, and would give his life for it freely, if he thought he could forward the cause a single inch by doing it.’

      ‘You’re quite right,’ said Herbert calmly. ‘He’s an Elijah thrown blankly upon these prosaic latter days; and what’s more, his gospel’s all true; but it doesn’t matter a sou to you or me, for it will never come about in our time, no nor for a century after. Post nos millennium. So what on earth’s the good of our troubling our poor overworked heads about it?’

      ‘He’s the only really great man I ever knew,’ said Ernest enthusiastically, ‘and I consider that his friendship’s the one thing in my life that has been really and truly worth living for. If a pessimist were to ask me what was the use of human existence, I should give him a card of introduction to go to Max Schurz’s.’

      ‘Excuse my interrupting your rhapsody, Ernest,’ Herbert put in blandly, ‘but will you have your own trousers tonight, Oswald, or will you wear mine back to your lodgings now, and I’ll send one of the servants round with yours for them in the morning?’

      ‘Thanks,’ said Harry Oswald, slapping the sides of the unopened dust-coat; ‘I think I’ll go home as I am at present, and I’ll recover the marks of the Beast again to-morrow. You see, I didn’t betray my evening waistcoat after all, now did I?’

      And they parted at the corner, each of them going his own way in his own mood and manner.

      CHAPTER II.

      THE COASTS OF THE GENTILES.

      The decayed and disfranchised borough of Calcombe Pomeroy, or Calcombe-on-the-Sea, is one of the prettiest and quietest little out-of-the-way watering-places in the whole smiling southern slope of the county of Devon. Thank heaven, the Great Western Railway, when planning its organised devastations along the beautiful rural region of the South Hams, left poor little Calcombe out in the cold; and the consequence is that those few people who still love to linger in the uncontaminated rustic England of our wiser forefathers can here find a beach unspoiled by goat-carriages or black-faced minstrels, a tiny parade uninvaded by stucco terraces or German brass bands, and an ancient stone pier off which swimmers may take a header direct, in the early morning, before the sumptuary edicts of his worship the Mayor compel them to resort to the use of bathing-machines and the decent covering of an approved costume, between the hours of eight and eight. A board beside the mouth of the harbour, signed by a Secretary of State to his late Majesty King William the Fourth, still announces to a heedless world the tolls to be paid for entry by the ships that never arrive; and a superannuated official in a wooden leg and a gold cap-band retains the honourable sinecure of a harbour-mastership, with a hypothetical salary nominally payable from the non-existent fees and port dues. The little river Cale, at the bottom of whose combe the wee town nestles snugly, has cut itself a deep valley in the soft sandstone hills; and the gap in the cliffs formed by its mouth gives room for the few hundred yards of level on which the antiquated little parade is warmly ensconced. On either hand tall bluffs of brilliant red marl raise their honeycombed faces fronting the sea; and in the distance the sheeny grey rocks of the harder Devonian promontories gleam like watered satin in the slant rays of the afternoon sun. Altogether a very sleepy little old-world place is Calcombe Pomeroy, specially reserved by the overruling chance of the universe to be a summer retreat for quiet, peace-loving, old-world people.

      The Londoner who escapes for a while from the great teeming human ant-hill, with its dark foggy lanes and solid firmament of hanging smoke, to draw in a little unadulterated atmosphere at Calcombe Pomeroy, finds himself landed by the Plymouth slow train at Calcombe Road Station, twelve miles by cross-country highway from his final destination. The little grey box, described in the time-tables as a commodious omnibus, which takes him on for the rest of his journey, crawls slowly up the first six miles to the summit of the intervening range at the Cross Foxes Inn, and jolts swiftly down the other six miles, with red hot drag creaking and groaning lugubriously, till it seems to topple over sheer into the sea at the clambering High Street of the old borough. As you turn to descend the seaward slope at the Cross Foxes, you appear to leave modern industrial England and the nineteenth century well behind you on the north, and you go down into a little isolated primaeval dale, cut off from all the outer world by the high ridge that girds it round on every side, and turned only on the southern front towards the open Channel and the backing sun. Half-way down the steep cobble-paved High Street, just after you pass the big dull russet church, a small shop on the left-hand side bears a signboard with the painted legend, ‘Oswald, Family Grocer and Provision Dealer.’ In the front bay window of that red-brick house, built out just over the shop, Harry Oswald, Fellow and Lecturer of Oriel College, Oxford, kept his big oak writing-desk; and at that desk he might be seen reading or writing on most mornings during the long vacation, after the end of his three weeks’ stay at a London West-end lodging-house, from which he had paid his first visit to Max Schurz’s Sunday evening receptions.

      ‘Two pounds of best black tea, good quality — yours is generally atrocious, Mrs. Oswald — that’s the next thing on the list,’ said poor trembling, shaky Miss Luttrell, the Squire’s sister, a palsied old lady with a quavering, querulous, rasping voice. ‘Two pounds of best black tea, and mind you don’t send it all dust, as you usually do. No good tea to be got nowadays, since they took the duties off and ruined the country. And I see a tall young man lounging about the place sometimes, and never touching his hat to me as he ought to do. Young people have no manners in these times, Mrs. Oswald, as they used to have when you and I were young. Your son, I suppose, come home from sea or something? He’s in the fish-curing line, isn’t he, I think I’ve heard you say?’

      ‘I don’t rightly know who ‘ee may mean, Miss Luttrell,’ replied the mother proudly, ‘by a young man lounging about the place; but my son’s at home from Oxford at present for his vacations, and he isn’t in the fish-curing line at all, ma’am, but he’s a Fellow of his college, as I’ve told ‘ee more than once already; but you’re getting old, I see, Miss Luttrell, and your memory isn’t just what it had used to be, dost know.’

      ‘Oh, at Oxford, is he?’ Miss Luttrell chimed on vacantly, wagging her wrinkled old head in solemn deprecation of the evil omen. She knew it as well as Mrs. Oswald herself did, having heard the fact at least a thousand times before; but she made it a matter of principle never to encourage these upstart pretensions on the part of the lower orders, and just to keep them rigorously at their proper level she always made a feint of forgetting any steps in advance which they might have been bold enough to take, without humbly obtaining her previous permission, out of their original and natural obscurity. ‘Fellow of his college is he, really? Fellow of a college! Dear me, how completely Oxford is going to the dogs. Admitting all kinds of odd people into the University, I understand. Why, my second brother — the Archdeacon, you know — was a Fellow of Magdalen for some time in his younger days. You surprise me, quite. Fellow of a college! You’re perfectly sure he isn’t a National schoolmaster at Oxford instead, and that you and his father haven’t got the two things mixed up together in your heads, Mrs. Oswald?’

      ‘No, ma’am, we’in perfectly sure of it, and we haven’t got the things mixed up in our heads at all, no more nor you have, Miss Luttrell. He was a scholar of Trinity first, and now he’s got a Fellowship at Oriel. You must mind hearing all about it at the time, only you’re getting so forgetful like now, with years and such like.’ Mrs. Oswald knew there was nothing that annoyed the old lady so much as any allusion to her increasing age or infirmities, and she took her revenge out of her in that simple retributive fashion.

      ‘A scholar of Trinity, was he? Ah, yes, patronage will do a great deal in these days, for certain. The Rector took a wonderful interest in your boy, I think, Mrs. Oswald. He went to Plymouth Grammar School, I remember now, with a nomination no doubt; and there, I dare say, he attracted some attention, being a decent, hard-working lad, and got sent to Oxford with a sizarship, or something of the sort; there are all kinds of arrangements like that at the Universities, I believe, to encourage poor young men of respectable character. They become missionaries or ushers in the end, and often get very good salaries, considering everything, I’m told.’

      ‘There you’re wrong, again, ma’am,’ put in Mrs. Oswald, stoutly. ‘My husband, he sent Harry to Plymouth School at our own expense; and after that he got an exhibition from the school, and an open scholarship, I think they call it, at the college; and he’s been no more beholden to patronage, ma’am, than your brother the Archdeacon was, nor for the matter o’ that not so much neither; for I’ve a’ways understood the old Squire sent him first to the Charterhouse, and afterwards he got a living through Lord Modbury’s influence, as the Squire voted regular with the Modbury people for the borough and county. But George was always independent, Miss Luttrell, and beholden to neither Luttrells nor Modburies, and that I tell ‘ee to your face, ma’am, and no shame of it either.’

      ‘Well, well, Mrs. Oswald,’ said the old lady, shaking her head more violently than ever at this direct discomfiture, ‘I don’t want to argue with you about the matter. I dare say your son’s a very worthy young man, and has worked his way up into a position he wasn’t intended for by Providence. But it’s no business of mine, thank heaven, it’s no business of mine, for I’m not responsible for all the vagaries of all the tradespeople on my brother’s estate, nor don’t want to be. There’s Mrs. Figgins, now, the baker’s wife; her daughter has just chosen to get married to a bank clerk in London; and I said to her this morning, Well, Mrs. Figgins, so you’ve let your Polly go and pick up with some young fellow from town that you’ve never seen before, haven’t you? And that’s the way of all you people. You marry your girls to bank clerks without a reference, for the sake of getting ’em off your hands, and what’s the consequence? They rob their employers to keep up a pretty household for their wives, as if they were fine ladies; and then at last the thing’s discovered, there comes a smash, they run away to America, and you have your daughters and their children thrown back again penniless upon your hands. That’s what I said to her, Mrs. Oswald. And how’s YOUR daughter, by the way — Jemima I think you call her; how’s she, eh, tell me?’

      ‘I beg your pardon, Miss Luttrell, but her name’s not Jemima; it’s Edith.’

      ‘Oh, Edith, is it? Well to be sure! The grand names girls have dangling about with them nowadays! My name’s plain Catherine, and it’s good enough for me, thank goodness. But these young ladies of the new style must be Ediths and Eleanors and Ophelias, and all that heathenish kind of thing, as if they were princesses of the blood or play-actresses, instead of being good Christian Susans and Janes and Betties, like their grandmothers were before them. And Miss Edith, now, what is SHE doing?’

      ‘She’s doing nothing in particular at this moment, Miss Luttrell, leastways not so far as I know of; but she’s going up to Oxford part of this term on a visit to her brother.’

      ‘Going up to Oxford, my good woman! Why, heaven bless the girl, she’d much better stop at home and learn her catechism. She should try to do her duty in that station of life to which it has pleased Providence to call her, instead of running after young gentlemen above her own rank and place in society at Oxford. Tell her so from me, Mrs. Oswald, and mind you don’t send the tea dusty. Two pounds of your best, if you please, as soon as you can send it. Good-morning.’ And Miss Luttrell, having discovered the absolute truth of the shocking rumour which had reached her about Edith’s projected visit, the confirmation of which was the sole object of her colloquy, wagged her way out of the shop again successfully, and was duly assisted by the page-boy into her shambling little palsied donkey-chair.

      ‘That was all the old cat came about, you warr’nt you,’ muttered Mr. Oswald himself from behind his biscuit-boxes. ‘Must have heard it from the Rector’s wife, and wanted to find out if it was true, to go and tell Mrs. Walters o’ such a bit o’ turble presumptiousness.’

      Meanwhile, in the little study with the bow-window over the shop, Harry and Edie Oswald were busily discussing the necessary preparations for Edie’s long-promised visit to the University.

      ‘I hope you’ve got everything nice in the way of dress, you know, Edie,’ said Harry. ‘You’ll want a decent dinner dress, of course, for you’ll be asked out to dine at least once or twice; and I want you to have everything exceedingly proper and pretty.’

      ‘I think I’ve got all I need in that way, Harry; I’ve my dark poplin, cut square in the bodice, for one dinner dress, and my high black silk to fall back upon for another. Worn open in front, with a lace handkerchief and a locket, it does really very nicely. Then I’ve got three afternoon dresses, the grey you gave me, the sage-greeny aesthetic one, and the peacock-blue with the satin box-pleats. It’s a charming dress, the peacock-blue; it looks as if it might have stepped straight out of a genuine Titian. It came home from Miss Wells’s this morning. Wait five minutes, like a dear boy, and I’ll run and put it on and let you see me in it.’

      ‘That’s a good girl, do. I’m so anxious you should have all your clothes the exact pink of perfection, Popsy. Though I’m afraid I’m a very poor critic in that matter — if you were only a problem in space of four dimensions, now! Yet, after all, every man or woman is more of a problem than anything in x square plus y square you can possibly set yourself.’

      Edie ran lightly up into her own room, and soon reappeared clad resplendent in the new peacock-blue dress, with hat and parasol to match, and a little creamy lamb’s-wool scarf thrown with artful carelessness around her pretty neck and shoulders. Harry looked at her with unfeigned admiration. Indeed, you would not easily find many lighter or more fairly-like little girls than Edie Oswald, even in the beautiful half-Celtic South Hams of Devon. In figure she was rather small than short, for though she was but a wee thing, her form was so exactly and delicately modelled that she might have looked tall if she stood alone at a little distance. She never walked, but seemed to dance about from place to place, so buoyant and light, that Harry doubted whether in her case gravitation could really vary as the square of the distance — it seemed, in fact, to be almost diminished in the proportions of the cube. Her hair and eyes — such big bright eyes! — were dark; but her complexion was scarcely brunette, and the colour in her cheeks was rich and peach-like, after the true Devonian type. She was dimpled whenever she smiled, and she smiled often; her full lips giving a peculiar ripe look to her laughing mouth that suited admirably with her light and delicate style of beauty. Perhaps some people might have thought them too full; certainly they irresistibly suggested to a critical eye the distinct notion of kissability. As she stood there, faintly blushing, waiting to be admired by her brother, in her neatly fitting dainty blue dress, her lips half parted, and her arms held carelessly at her side, she looked about as much like a fairy picture as it is given to mere human flesh and blood to look.

      ‘It’s delicious, Edie,’ said Harry, surveying her from, head to foot with a smile of satisfaction which made her blush deepen; ‘it’s simply delicious. Where on earth did you get the idea of it?’

      ‘Well, it’s partly the present style,’ said Edie; ‘but I took the notion of the bodice partly too from that Vandyck, you know, in the Palazzo Bossi at Genoa.’

      ‘I remember, I remember,’ Harry answered, contemplating her with an admiring eye. ‘Now just turn round and show me how it sits behind, Edie. You recollect Théophile Gautier says the one great advantage which a beautiful woman possesses over a beautiful statue is this, that while a man has to walk round the beautiful statue in order to see it from every side, he can ask the beautiful woman to turn herself round and let him see her, without requiring to take that trouble.’

      ‘Théophile Gautier was a horrid man, and if anybody but my brother quoted such a thing as that to me I should be very angry with him indeed.’

      ‘Théophile Gautier was quite as horrid as you consider him to be, and if you were anybody but my sister it isn’t probable I should have quoted him to you. But if there is any statue on earth prettier or more graceful than you are in that dress at this moment, Edie, then the Venus of Milo ought immediately to be pulverised to ultimate atoms for a rank artistic impostor.’

      ‘Thank you, Harry, for the compliment. What pretty things you must be capable of saying to somebody else’s sister, when you’re so polite and courtly to your own.’

      ‘On the contrary, Popsy, when it comes to somebody else’s sister I’m much too nervous and funky to say anything of the kind. But you must at least do Gautier the justice to observe that if I had described a circle round you, instead of allowing you to revolve once on your own axis, I shouldn’t have been able to get the gloss on the satin in the sunlight as I do now that you turn the panniers toward the window. That, you must admit, is a very important aesthetic consideration.’

      ‘Oh, of course it’s essentially a sunshiny dress,’ said Edie, smiling. ‘It’s meant to be worn out of doors, on a fine afternoon, when the light is falling slantwise, you know, just as it does now through the low window. That’s the light painters always choose for doing satin in.’

      ‘It’s certainly very pretty,’ Harry went on, musing; ‘but I’m afraid Le Breton would say it was a serious piece of economic hubris.’

      ‘Piece of what?’ asked Edie quickly.

      ‘Piece of hubris — an economical outrage, don’t you see; a gross anti-social and individualist demonstration. Hubris, you know, is Greek for insolence; at least, not quite insolence, but a sort of pride and overweening rebelliousness against the gods, the kind of arrogance that brings Nemesis after it, you understand. It was hubris in Agamemnon and Xerxes to go swelling about and ruffling themselves like turkey-cocks, because they were great conquerors and all that sort of thing; and it was their Nemesis to get murdered by Clytemnestra, or jolly well beaten by the Athenians at Salamis. Well, Le Breton always uses the word for anything that he thinks socially wrong — and he thinks a good many things socially wrong, I can tell you — anything that partakes of the nature of a class distinction, or a mere vulgar ostentation of wealth, or a useless waste of good, serviceable, labour-gotten material. He would call it hubris to have silver spoons when electroplate would do just as well; or to keep a valet for your own personal attendant, making one man into the mere bodily appanage of another; or to buy anything you didn’t really need, causing somebody else to do work for you which might otherwise have been avoided.’

      ‘Which Mr. Le Breton — the elder or the younger one?’

      ‘Oh, the younger — Ernest. As for Herbert, the Fellow of St. Aldate’s, he’s not troubled with any such scruples; he takes the world as he finds it.’

      ‘They’ve both gone in for their degrees, haven’t they?’

      ‘Yes, Herbert has got a fellowship; Ernest’s up in residence still looking about for one.’

      ‘It’s Ernest that would think my dress a piece of what-you-may-call-it?’

      ‘Yes, Ernest.’

      ‘Then I’m sure I shan’t like him. I should insist upon every woman’s natural right to wear the dress or hat or bonnet that suits her complexion best.’

      ‘You can’t tell, Edie, till you’ve met him. He’s a very good fellow; and of one thing I’m certain, whatever he thinks right he does, and sticks to it.’

      ‘But do YOU think, Harry, I oughtn’t to wear a new peacock-blue camel-hair dress on my first visit up to Oxford?’

      ‘Well, Edie dear, I don’t quite know what my own opinions are exactly upon that matter. I’m not an economist, you see, I’m a man of science. When I look at you, standing there so pretty in that pretty dress, I feel inclined to say to myself, Every woman ought to do her best to make herself look as beautiful as she can for the common delectation of all humanity. Your beauty, a Greek would have said, is a gift from the gods to us all, and we ought all gratefully to make the most of it. I’m sure I do.’

      ‘Thank you, Harry, again. You’re in your politest humour this afternoon.’

      ‘But then, on the other hand, I know if Le Breton were here he’d soon argue me over to the other side. He has the enthusiasm of humanity so strong upon him that you can’t help agreeing with him as long as he’s talking to you.’

      ‘Then if he were here you’d probably make me put away the peacock-blue, for fear of hubris and Nemesis and so forth, and go up to Oxford a perfect fright in my shabby old Indian tussore!’

      ‘I don’t know that I should do that, even then, Edie. In the first place, nothing on earth could make you look a perfect fright, or anything like one, Popsy dear; and in the second place, I don’t know that I’m Socialist

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