's what you said, didn't you? Perhaps you have
forgotten it. Well, I haven't. Socialism doesn't consist of standing
up in a room to sing."

Arithelli made no answer. She lay like a dead thing, and after a pause
the slow cynical voice went on.

"There was another woman in our affair about two years ago. Her name
was Felise Rivaz. She got engaged to one of the men, and then it
suddenly occurred to her that comfortable matrimony and Anarchy didn't
seem likely to be enjoyed at one and the same time. So she persuaded
the man to turn traitor and run away to England with her, where they
proposed to get married.

"Their plans came out,--naturally,--those things generally do. We all
spy upon each other. They both felt so secure that they came together
to a last meeting--I can show you the house if you like. It's down in
the Parelelo, the revolutionary quarter.

"They strangled the woman, and cut off her arm above the elbow--I
remember she had a thick gold bracelet round it with a date (a _gage
d'amour_ from her lover I suppose)--and they made him drink the blood.
He went mad afterwards. The best thing he could do under the
circumstances." Emile shrugged.

"There are plenty more similar _histoires_. But perhaps I have told
you enough to convince you of the futility of attempting to draw back
from what you have undertaken."

Still there was neither movement nor answer. Emile got up, and came to
the bed.

"_Allons_! It's time you were dressing. You'll be late again, and one
of these days you'll find yourself dismissed. You must just go on and
put up with it all. Life mostly consists of putting up with things."

But even this consoling philosophy failed to have a rousing effect.

For the first time in her life Arithelli had fainted.

* * * * * *

When she came to her senses that evening Emile sent the landlady with a
message to the Hippodrome, telling the Manager to substitute another
turn, and then made Arithelli get into bed. Her dress and boots came
off and reposed upon the floor. The rest of her clothes were left on.

These details did not worry Emile. Then he found a book and sat
reading till she had drifted into a heavy sleep, the sleep of
exhaustion.

In his own way he was sorry for her, and his feelings were by no means
as brutal as his words. At the same time he did not believe in a
display of sympathy. According to his ideas it was demoralising, and
cur