“I don’t disagree with much that you said to-night.  But you are on the side of wealth and aristocracy.  I am on the side of the downtrodden and oppressed.”

“But so am I,” cried Paul.  “The work of every day of my life tends to help them.”

“You’re a Conservative and I’m a Radical.”

“What do labels matter?  We’re both attacking the same problem, only from different angles.”

“Very likely, Mr. Savelli; but you’ll pardon me if, according to my political creed, I regard your angle as an obtuse one.”

Paul wondered greatly who he could be, this grave, intelligent friend of Barney Bill’s, who spoke with such dignity and courtesy.  In his speech was a trace of rough accent; but his words were chosen with precision.

“You think we glance off, whereas your attack is more direct,” laughed Paul.

“That is so.  I hope you don’t mind my saying it.  You were the challenger.”

“I was.  But anyhow we’re not going to be enemies.”

“God forbid,” said Mr. Finn.

Presently the cab stopped before a fairly large detached house standing back from the road.  A name which Paul could not decipher was painted on the top bar of the gate.  They trooped through and up some steps to the front door, which Mr. Finn opened with his latchkey.  The first impression that Paul had on entering a wide vestibule was a blaze of gilt frames containing masses of bright, fresh paint.  A parlour-maid appeared, and helped with hats and coats.

“We are having a very simple supper, Mr. Savelli.  Will you join us?” said Mr. Finn.

“With the greatest pleasure,” said Paul.

The host threw open the dining-room door on the right.  Jane and Paul entered; were alone for a few moments, during which Paul heard Barney Bill say in a hoarse whisper:  “Let me have my hunk of bread and beef in the kitchen, Silas.  You know as how I hates a fork and I likes to eat in my shirt sleeves.”

Paul seized Jane by the arms and regarded her luminously.  He murmured:  “Did you hear?  The dear old chap!”

She raised clear, calm eyes.  “Aren’t you shocked?”

He shook her.  “What do you take me for?”

Jane was rebellious.  “For what girls in my position generally call a ‘toff.’  You—–­”

“You’re horrid,” said Paul.

“The word’s horrid, not me.  You’re away up above us.”

“‘Us’ seems to be very prosperous, anyhow,” said Paul, looking round him.  Jane watched him jealously and saw his face change.  The dining room, spaciously proportioned, was, like the vestibule, a mass of gilt frames and staring paint.  Not an inch of wall above the oak dado was visible.  Crude landscapes, wooden portraits, sea studies with waves of corrugated iron, subject pictures of childishly sentimental appeal, blinded the eyes.  It looked as if a kindergarten had been the selecting committee for an exhibition of the Royal Academy.  It looked also as if the kindergarten had replaced the hanging committee also.  It was a conglomerate massacre.  It was pictorial anarchy.  It was individualism baresark, amok, crazily frantic.  And an execrably vile, nerve-destroying individualism at that.