She could not be insensible to the charm of his manner towards her.  There was in it, no doubt, the natural force and weight of the man older and better informed than his companion, and amused every now and then by her extravagance.  But even her irritable pride could not take offence.  For the intellectual dissent she felt at bottom was tempered by a moral sympathy of which the gentleness and warmth touched and moved her in spite of herself.  And now that they were alone he could express himself.  So long as they had been in company he had seemed to her, as often before, shy, hesitating, and ineffective.  But with the disappearance of spectators, who represented to him, no doubt, the harassing claim of the critical judgment, all was freer, more assured, more natural.

She leant her chin on her hand, considering his plea.

“Supposing you live long enough to see the State take it, shall you be able to reconcile yourself to it?  Or shall you feel it a wrong, and go out a rebel?”

A delightful smile was beginning to dance in the dark eyes.  She was recovering the tension of her talk with Lord Maxwell.

“All must depend, you see, on the conditions—­on how you and your friends are going to manage the transition.  You may persuade me—­conceivably—­or you may eject me with violence.”

“Oh, no!” she interposed quickly.  “There will be no violence.  Only we shall gradually reduce your wages.  Of course, we can’t do without leaders—­we don’t want to do away with the captains of any industry, agricultural or manufacturing.  Only we think you overpaid.  You must be content with less.”

“Don’t linger out the process,” he said laughing, “otherwise it will be painful.  The people who are condemned to live in these houses before the Commune takes to them, while your graduated land and income taxes are slowly starving them out, will have a bad time of it.”

“Well, it will be your first bad time!  Think of the labourer now, with five children, of school age, on twelve shillings a week—­think of the sweated women in London.”

“Ah, think of them,” he said in a different tone.

There was a pause of silence.

“No!” said Marcella, springing up.  “Don’t let’s think of them.  I get to believe the whole thing a pose in myself and other people.  Let’s go back to the pictures.  Do you think Titian ‘sweated’ his drapery men—­paid them starvation rates, and grew rich on their labour?  Very likely.  All the same, that blue woman”—­she pointed to a bending Magdalen—­“will be a joy to all time.”

They wandered through the gallery, and she was now all curiosity, pleasure, and intelligent interest, as though she had thrown off an oppression.  Then they emerged into the upper corridor answering to the corridor of the antiques below.  This also was hung with pictures, principally family portraits of the second order, dating back to the Tudors—­a fine series of berobed and bejewelled personages, wherein clothes pre-dominated and character was unimportant.