re 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.

Marcella's eye was glancing along the brilliant colour of the wall,
taking rapid note of jewelled necks surmounting stiff embroidered
dresses, of the whiteness of lace ruffs, or the love-locks and gleaming
satin of the Caroline beauties, when it suddenly occ