“And the idlers and loafers,” said Erskine.  “What of them?”

“You and I, in fact,” said Trefusis, “die of starvation, I suppose, unless we choose to work, or unless they give us a little out-door relief in consideration of our bad bringing-up.”

“Do you mean that they will plunder us?” said Sir Charles.

“I mean that they will make us stop plundering them.  If they hesitate to strip us naked, or to cut our throats if we offer them the smallest resistance, they will show us more mercy than we ever showed them.  Consider what we have done to get our rents in Ireland and Scotland, and our dividends in Egypt, if you have already forgotten my photographs and their lesson in our atrocities at home.  Why, man, we murder the great mass of these toilers with overwork and hardship; their average lifetime is not half as long as ours.  Human nature is the same in them as in us.  If we resist them, and succeed in restoring order, as we call it, we will punish them mercilessly for their insubordination, as we did in Paris in 1871, where, by-the-bye, we taught them the folly of giving their enemies quarter.  If they beat us, we shall catch it, and serve us right.  Far better turn honest at once and avert bloodshed.  Eh, Erskine?”

Erskine was considering what reply he should make, when Trefusis disconcerted him by ringing a bell.  Presently the elderly woman appeared, pushing before her an oblong table mounted on wheels, like a barrow.

“Thank you,” said Trefusis, and dismissed her.  “Here is some good wine, some good water, some good fruit, and some good bread.  I know that you cling to wine as to a good familiar creature.  As for me, I make no distinction between it and other vegetable poisons.  I abstain from them all.  Water for serenity, wine for excitement.  I, having boiling springs of excitement within myself, am never at a loss for it, and have only to seek serenity.  However,” (here he drew a cork), “a generous goblet of this will make you feel like gods for half an hour at least.  Shall we drink to your conversion to Socialism?”

Sir Charles shook his head.

“Come, Mr. Donovan Brown, the great artist, is a Socialist, and why should not you be one?”

“Donovan Brown!” exclaimed Sir Charles with interest.  “Is it possible?  Do you know him personally?”

“Here are several letters from him.  You may read them; the mere autograph of such a man is interesting.”

Sir Charles took the letters and read them earnestly, Erskine reading over his shoulder.

“I most cordially agree with everything he says here,” said Sir Charles.  “It is quite true, quite true.”

“Of course you agree with us.  Donovan Brown’s eminence as an artist has gained me one recruit, and yours as a baronet will gain me some more.”

“But—­”

“But what?” said Trefusis, deftly opening one of the albums at a photograph of a loathsome room.