"Brother Senior Warden, your place in the lodge?" said Mr. Brand, looking at the small dinner-table. "You forget," his companion said. "I am only in the nursery as yet--an Illuminatus Minor, as it were. However, I don't think I can do better than sit where Waters has put me; I can have a glimpse of the lights on the river. But what an extraordinary place for you to come to for rooms!" They had driven down through the glare of the great city to this silent and dark little thoroughfare, dismissed the carriage at the foot, climbed up an old-fashioned oak staircase, and found themselves at last received by an elderly person, who looked a good deal more like a bronzed old veteran than an ordinary English butler. "Halloo, Waters!" said Lord Evelyn. "How are you? I don't think I have seen you since you threatened to murder the landlord at Cairo." "No, my lord," said Mr. Waters, who seemed vastly pleased by this reminiscence, and who instantly disappeared to summon dinner for the two young men. "Extraordinary?" said Brand, when they had got seated at table. "Oh no; my constant craving is for air, space, light and quiet. Here I have all these. Beneath are the Embankment gardens; beyond that, you see, the river--those lights are the steamers at anchor. As for quiet, the lower floors are occupied by a charitable society; so I fancied there would not be much traffic on the stairs." The jibe passed unheeded; Lord Evelyn had long ago become familiar with his friend's way of speaking about men and things. "And so, Evelyn, you have become a pupil of the revolutionaries," George Brand continued, when Waters had put some things before them and retired--"a student of the fine art of stabbing people unawares? What an astute fellow that Lind must be--I will swear it never occurred to one of the lot before--to get an English milord into their ranks! A stroke of genius! It could only have been projected by a great mind. And then look at the effect throughout Europe if an English milord were to be found with a parcel of Orsini bombs in his possession! every ragamuffin from Naples to St. Petersburg would rejoice; the army of cutthroats would march with a new swagger." His companion said nothing; but there was a vexed and impatient look on his face. "And our little daughter--is she pretty? Does she coax the young men to play with daggers?--the innocent little thing! And when you start with your dynamite to break open a jail, she blows you a kiss?--the charming little fairy! What is it she has embroidered on the ribbons round her neck?--'_Mort aux rois_?' '_Sic semper tyrannis_?' No; I saw a much prettier one somewhere the other day: '_Ne si pasce di fresche ruggiade, ma di sangue di membra di re_.' Isn't it charming? It sounds quite idyllic, even in English: '_Not for you the nourishment of freshening dews, but the blood of the limbs of kings_!' The pretty little stabber--is she fierce?"