ed of a very
simple morning dress, of some woollen material, nearly black, garnished
at the throat and wrists by some plain white frills. The dress hung
loosely on the girl's starved frame, the hands were long and thin, the
face sallow. Yet such was the force of the eyes, the energy of the
strong chin and mouth, the flashing freedom of her smile, as she stood
talking to Lady Lucy, that all the ugly plainness of the dress seemed to
Diana, as she watched her, merely to increase her strange effectiveness,
to mark her out the more favorably from the glittering room, from Lady
Lucy's satin and diamonds, or the shimmering elegance of Alicia Drake.

As she bowed to Mr. Frobisher, and took his arm amid the pairs moving
toward the dining-room, Diana asked him eagerly who the lady in the dark
dress might be.

"Oh! a great friend of mine," he said, pleasantly. "Isn't she splendid?
Did you notice her evening dress?"

"Is it an evening dress?"

"It's _her_ evening dress. She possesses two costumes--both made of the
same stuff, only the morning one has a straight collar, and the evening
one has frills."

"She doesn't think it right to dress like other people?"

"Well--she has very little money, and what she has she can't afford to
spend on dress. No--I suppose she doesn't think it right."

By this time they were settled at table, and Diana, convinced that she
had found one of the two Socialists promised her, looked round for the
other. Ah! there he was, beside Mrs. Fotheringham--who was talking to
him with an eagerness rarely vouchsafed to her acquaintances. A
powerful, short-necked man, in the black Sunday coat of the workman,
with sandy hair, blunt features, and a furrowed brow--he had none of the
magnetism, the strange refinement of the lady in the frills. Diana drew
a long breath.

"How odd it all is!" she said, as though to herself.

Her companion looked at her with amusement.

"What is odd? The combination of this house--with Barton--and Miss
Vincent?"

"Why do they consent to come here?" she asked, wondering. "I suppose
they despise the rich."

"Not at all! The poor things--the rich--can't help themselves--just yet.
_We_ come here--because we mean to use the rich."

"You!--you too?"

"A Fabian--" he said, smiling. "Which means that I am not in such a
hurry as Barton."

"To ruin your country? You would only murder her by degrees?"--flashed
Diana.

"Ah!--you throw down the glove?--so soon? Shall we postpone