“He was not at home,” she says, in answer to her husband’s look of interrogation. “The door was shut, and his card was stuck under the bell with ‘Out’ written upon it. I suppose I could have done no good if I had seen him. For I met Scott-Gwynne in the street, and he told me he had just heard Mr. Fanshawe saying in the reading-room at the Travellers’ that Wilfrid had refused formally, and signed his refusal. Fanshawe was present.” “But Mr. Fanshawe as a Socialist, as a Radical, must approve the refusal?” says Cicely Seymour, from where she sits by a stand of Malmaison roses. Southwold laughs grimly. “Fanshawe thinks all wealth should be equally distributed; but so long as it isn’t so, he gets all he can for himself, and considers everybody should do the same who has the opportunity.” Cicely is silent. “I suppose Wilfrid has gone to have tea and shrimps with the washerwoman,” says Lady Southwold. “Cicely, give me some tea, please. I fear shrimps are an unknown joy to us.” Cicely rises and goes over to the tea-table. “Are you really positive that he is going to marry this girl?” asks his aunt, as Cicely hands her a cup and some muffin. “The mother of the girl said so,” replies Cicely, coldly. “She did not, herself, seem to care about it.” Lord Southwold laughs savagely. “To make a _mésalliance_, and not even to be welcome! By Jove! The fellow ought to be shot. Disgracing both our families in such a manner.” “You are unfair to him, Lord Southwold,” says Cicely. “In what way, my dear?” “You do not attempt to enter into his views, his motives, his principles. His opinions may be somewhat exaggerated, but his loyalty to them is none the less admirable.” “Oh, you do admit they’re exaggerated?” “Some of them, yes. At least, in the _Age to Come_ there are things which one cannot wholly accept, but they always err on the side of generosity! And he is always consistent. Mr. Fanshawe may be more politic, but he is far less to be respected. You blame the refusal of this fortune. But you must admit it shows his consistency.” “Only fools are consistent,” says Southwold, with unspeakable contempt. “Really,” cries Lady Southwold, “one would think you were in love with Wilfrid to hear you, Cicely.” Cicely colours a little. “One is not necessarily in love because one can see two sides to a question. It seems to me extremely unjust to quarrel with anybody for endeavouring loyally to carry out the views which they profess. You seem to admire Mr. Fanshawe’s opportunism: I do not.” “Fanshawe is a shrewd man of the world, Wilfrid is a monomaniac who has gone daft on altruism.” “Or Annie-ism, as Lord Marlow observed with such exquisite wit,” says Cicely from her retreat amongst the roses, whither she has returned after dispensing the tea. A footman puts aside the _portières_ of one of the doors, and announces: “Mr. Bertram.” There is a dead silence. Lord and Lady Southwold stare blankly at him.