“One thing more,” said Craven suddenly, as Wharton looked for his stick—­“you see there is talk of arbitration.”

“Oh yes, I know!” said Wharton impatiently; “a mere blind.  The men have been done by it twice before.  They get some big-wig from the neighbourhood—­not in the trade, indeed, but next door to it—­and, of course, the award goes against the men.”

“Then the paper will not back arbitration?”

Craven took out a note-book.

“No!—­The quarrel itself is as plain as a pikestaff.  The men are asking for a mere pittance, and must get it if they are to live.  It’s like all these home industries, abominably ground down.  We must go for them!  I mean to go for them hot and strong.  Poor devils! did you read the evidence in that Bluebook last year?  Arbitration? no, indeed! let them live first!”

Craven looked up absently.

“And I think,” he said, “you gave me Mr. Thorpe’s address?” Mr. Thorpe was the secretary.

Again Wharton gulped down his annoyance.  If he chose to be expansive, it was not for Craven to take no notice.

Craven, however, except in print, where he could be as vehement as anybody else, never spoke but in the driest way of those workman’s grievances, which in reality burnt at the man’s heart.  A deep disdain for what had always seemed to him the cheapest form of self-advertisement, held him back.  It was this dryness, combined with an amazing disinterestedness, which had so far stood in his way.

Wharton repeated the address, following it up by some rather curt directions as to the length and date of articles, to which Craven gave the minutest attention.

“May we come in?” said Marcella’s voice.

“By all means,” said Wharton, with a complete change of tone.  “Business is up and I am off!”

He took up his hat as he spoke.

“Not at all!  Tea is just coming, without which no guest departs,” said Marcella, taking as she spoke a little tray from the red-haired Daisy who followed her, and motioning to the child to bring the tea-table.

Wharton looked at her irresolute.  He had spent half an hour with her tete-a-tete before Louis Craven arrived, and he was really due at the House.  But now that she was on the scene again, he did not find it so easy to go away.  How astonishingly beautiful she was, even in this disguise!  She wore her nurse’s dress; for her second daily round began at half-past four, and her cloak, bonnet, and bag were lying ready on a chair beside her.  The dress was plain brown holland, with collar and armlets of white linen; but, to Wharton’s eye, the dark Italian head, and the long slenderness of form had never shown more finely.  He hesitated and stayed.

“All well?” said Marcella, in a half whisper, as she passed Louis Craven on her way to get some cake.

He nodded and smiled, and she went back to the tea-table with an eye all gaiety, pleased with herself and everybody else.