“The light’s perfect now,” she said, in a voice muffled by the cloth.  “I feel sure that livin’ with decent people will do wonders for him.  Of course, he understands that his meals will be served to him apart.”

Shelton, doubly anxious, now that his efforts had lodged his client in a place of trust, fell, back on hoping for the best; his instinct told him that, vagabond as Ferrand was, he had a curious self-respect, that would save him from a mean ingratitude.

In fact, as Mrs. Dennant, who was by no means void of common-sense, foresaw, the arrangement worked all right.  Ferrand entered on his duties as French tutor to the little Robinsons.  In the Dennants’ household he kept himself to his own room, which, day and night, he perfumed with tobacco, emerging at noon into the garden, or, if wet, into the study, to teach young Toddles French.  After a time it became customary for him to lunch with the house-party, partly through a mistake of Toddles, who seemed to think that it was natural, and partly through John Noble, one of Shelton’s friends, who had come to stay, and discovered Ferrand to be a most awfully interesting person he was always, indeed, discovering the most awfully interesting persons.  In his grave and toneless voice, brushing his hair from off his brow, he descanted upon Ferrand with enthusiasm, to which was joined a kind of shocked amusement, as who should say, “Of course, I know it’s very odd, but really he ’s such an awfully interesting person.”  For John Noble was a politician, belonging to one of those two Peculiar parties, which, thoroughly in earnest, of an honesty above suspicion, and always very busy, are constitutionally averse to anything peculiar for fear of finding they have overstepped the limit of what is practical in politics.  As such he inspired confidence, not caring for things unless he saw some immediate benefit to be had from them, having a perfect sense of decency, and a small imagination.  He discussed all sorts of things with Ferrand; on one occasion Shelton overheard them arguing on anarchism.

“No Englishman approves of murder,” Noble was saying, in the gloomy voice that contrasted with the optimistic cast of his fine head, “but the main principle is right.  Equalisation of property is bound to come.  I sympathise with then, not with their methods.”

“Forgive me,” struck in Ferrand; “do you know any anarchists?”

“No,” returned Noble; “I certainly do not.”

“You say you sympathise with them, but the first time it comes to action—­”

“Well?”

“Oh, monsieur! one doesn’t make anarchism with the head.”

Shelton perceived that he had meant to add, “but with the heart, the lungs, the liver.”  He drew a deeper meaning from the saying, and seemed to see, curling with the smoke from Ferrand’s lips, the words:  “What do you, an English gentleman, of excellent position, and all the prejudices of your class, know about us outcasts?  If you want to understand us you must be an outcast too; we are not playing at the game.”