“‘Two men I honour, and no third,’” he said, quoting in a slightly dragging, vibrating voice:  “’First, the toil-worn craftsman that with earth-made implement laboriously conquers the earth and makes her man’s.—­Hardly-entreated Brother!  For us was thy back so bent, for us were thy straight limbs and fingers so deformed; thou wert our conscript, on whom the lot fell, and fighting our battles wert so marred.’  Heavens! how the words swing!  But it is great nonsense, you know, for you and me—­Venturists—­to be maundering like this.  Charity—­benevolence—­that is all Carlyle is leading up to.  He merely wants the cash nexus supplemented by a few good offices.  But we want something much more unpleasant!  ’Keep your subscriptions—­hand over your dividends—­turn out of your land—­and go to work!’ Nowadays society is trying to get out of doing what we want, by doing what Carlyle wanted.”

“Do you want it?” said Marcella.

“I don’t know,” he said, laughing.  “It won’t come in our time.”

Her lip showed her scorn.

“That’s what we all think.  Meanwhile you will perhaps admit that a little charity greases the wheels.”

“You must, because you are a woman; and women are made for charity—­and aristocracy.”

“Do you suppose you know so much about women?” she asked him, rather hotly.  “I notice it is always the assumption of the people who make most mistakes.”

“Oh!  I know enough to steer by!” he said, smiling, with a little inclination of his curly head, as though to propitiate her.  “How like you are to that portrait!”

Marcella started, and saw that he was pointing to the woman’s portrait beside the window—­looking from it to his hostess with a close considering eye.

“That was an ancestress of mine,” she said coldly, “an Italian lady.  She was rich and musical.  Her money built these rooms along the garden, and these are her music books.”

She showed him that the shelves against which she was leaning were full of old music.

“Italian!” he said, lifting his eyebrows.  “Ah, that explains.  Do you know—­that you have all the qualities of a leader!”—­and he moved away a yard from her, studying her—­“mixed blood—­one must always have that to fire and fuse the English paste—­and then—­but no! that won’t do—­I should offend you.”

Her first instinct was one of annoyance—­a wish to send him about his business, or rather to return him to her mother who would certainly keep him in order.  Instead, however, she found herself saying, as she looked carelessly out of window—­

“Oh! go on.”

“Well, then”—­he drew himself up suddenly and wheeled round upon her—­“you have the gift of compromise.  That is invaluable—­that will take you far.”

“Thank you!” she said.  “Thank you!  I know what that means—­from a Venturist.  You think me a mean insincere person!”

He started, then recovered himself and came to lean against the bookshelves beside her.