"At your service." Firmstone raised his hat deliberately. The dignity of the action was compromised by a twinkle of his eyes and a wavering of his lips. Élise looked a little puzzled. "How old are you?" she asked, bluntly. "Twenty-eight." "That's awfully old. I'm sixteen," she answered, decisively. "That's good. What next?" "What's a minion?" she asked. She was trying to deploy her forces for her premeditated attack. "A minion?" he repeated, with a shade of surprise. "Oh, a minion's a fellow who licks the boots of the one above him and kicks the man below to even up." Élise looked bewildered. "What does that mean?" "Oh, I see." Firmstone's smile broadened. "You're literal-minded. According to Webster, a minion is a man who seeks favours by flattery." "Webster!" she exclaimed. "Who's Webster?" "He's the man who wrote a lexicon." "A lexicon? What's a lexicon?" "It's a book that tells you how to spell words, and tells you what they mean." Élise looked superior. "I know how to spell words, and I know what they mean, too, without looking in a--. What did you call it?" "Lexicon. I thought you just said you knew what words meant." "I didn't mean big words, just words that common folks use." "You aren't common folks, are you?" "That's just what I am," Élise answered, aggressively, "and we aren't ashamed of it, either. We're just as good as anybody," she ended, with a toss of her head. "Oh, thanks." Firmstone laughed. "I'm common folks, too." "No, you aren't. You're a minion. M'sieu Mo-reeson says so. You're a capitalistic hireling sent out here to oppress the poor workingman. You use long tape-lines to measure up, and short rods to measure holes, and you sneak in the mill at night, and go prying round the mine, and posting notices, and--er--oh, lots of things. You ought to be ashamed of yourself." She paused in breathless indignation, looking defiantly at Firmstone. Firmstone chuckled. "Looks as if I were a pretty bad lot, doesn't it? How did you find out all that?" "I didn't have to find it out. I hear M'sieu Mo-reeson and Daddy and Luna and lots of others talking about it. Daddy says you're 'smooth, ver' smooth stuff,'" she mimicked. Élise disregarded minor contradictions. "'Twon't do you any good, though. The day is not far distant when down-trodden labour will rise and smite the oppressor. Then----" her lips were still parted, but memory failed and inspiration refused to take its place. "Oh, well," she concluded, lamely, "you'll hunt your hole all right." "You're an out-and-out socialist, aren't you?" "A socialist?" Élise looked aghast. "What's a socialist?" "A socialist is one who thinks that everyone else is as unhappy and discontented as he is, and that anything that he can't get is better than what he can. Won't you be seated?" Firmstone waved her to a boulder. Élise seated herself, but without taking her eyes from Firmstone's face. "Now you're making fun of me." "No, I'm not." "Yes, you are."