"
"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.
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