“My own country scarcely counts,” she protested.  “After all, we came into being as a republic, and our aristocracy is only a spurious conglomeration of people who are too rich to need to work.  But many of these people whom you see here to-night still possess feudal rights, vast estates, great names, and yet over their heads there is coming this Government, in which they will be wholly unrepresented.  What are you going to do with the aristocracy, Mr. Tallente?”

“Encourage them to work,” he answered, smiling.

“But they don’t know how.”

“They must learn.  No man has a right to his place upon the earth unless he is a productive human being.  There is no room in the world which we are trying to create for the parasite pure and simple.”

“You are a very inflexible person, Mr. Tallente.”

“There is no place in politics for the wobbler.”

“Do you know,” she went on, glancing away for a moment, “that my rooms are filled with people who fear you.  The Labour Party, as it was understood here five or six years ago, never inspired that feeling.  There was something of the tub-thumper about every one of them.  I think it is your repression, Mr. Tallente, which terrifies them.  You don’t say what you are going to do.  Your programme is still a secret and yet every day your majority grows.  Only an hour ago the Prime Minister told me that he couldn’t carry on if you threw down the gage in earnest.”

Tallente remained bland, but became a little vague.

“I see Foulds amongst your guests,” he observed.  “Have you seen his statue of Perseus and Andromeda!’”

She laughed.

“I have, but I am not going to discuss it.  Of course, I accept the hint, but as a matter of fact I am a person to be trusted.  I ask for no secrets.  I have no position in this country.  Even my sympathies are at present wobbling.  I am simply a little thrilled to have you here, because the Prime Minister is within a few yards of us and I know that before many weeks are past the great struggle will come between you and him as to who shall guide the destinies of this country.”

“You forget, Mrs. Van Fosdyke,” he objected, “that I am not even the leader of my party.  Stephen Dartrey is our chief.”

She shook her head.

“Dartrey is a brilliant person,” she admitted, “but we all know that he is not a practical politician.  The battle is between you and Horlock.”

Tallente was watching a woman go by, a woman in black and silver, whose walk reminded him of Jane.  His hostess followed his eyes.

“You are one of Alice Mountgarron’s admirers?” she enquired.

“I don’t even know her,” he replied.  “She reminded me of some one for a moment.”

“She is one of the Duchess of Barminster’s daughters,” his companion told him.  “She married Mountgarron last year.  Her sister, Lady Jane, is rather inclined towards your political outlook.  She lives in Devonshire and tries to do good.”