The Secret of the League: The Story of a Social WarBramah, Ernest
Science
The Secret of the League: The Story of a Social War
Bramah, Ernest
Dystopias -- Fiction; Great Britain -- Politics and government -- Fiction; Social classes -- Fiction
Salt still smiled kindly. The slow, silent habit gives the best mask
after all. "And why have you come to me?" he asked.
"Because I _know_ that you are going to do something, and I want to
help. I loathe the way things are being done down there." The nod meant
the stately Palace of Westminster, though it happened to be really in
the direction of Charing Cross, but it was equally appropriate, for the
monuments of the Government, like those of Wren, lay all around. "Who
can go on playing tennis as usual when an ambassador who learned his
diplomacy in a Slaughter-housemen's Union represents us by acting
alternately as a fool and a cad before an astounded Paris? Or have an
interest in bridge when the Sultan of Turkey is contemptuously ordering
us to keep our fleet out of sight of Mitylene and we apologise and obey?
I will be content to address envelopes all day long if it will be of any
use. Surely there are other secret processes down other little lanes? I
will even be the doorkeeper at another artificial manure works if there
is nothing else!"
Salt sat thinking, but from the first he knew that for good or ill some
degree of their confidence must be extended to a woman. It is the common
experience of every movement when it swells beyond two members: or
conspiracies would be much more dangerous to their foes.
"It may be monotonous, perhaps even purposeless as far as you can see,"
he warned. "I do not know yet, and it will not be for you to say."
Miss Lisle flushed with the pleasurable thrill of blind sacrifice. "I
will not question," she replied. "Only if there should be any need you
might find that an ordinary uninteresting middle-class girl with a
slangy style and a muddy complexion could be as devoted as a Flora
Macdonald or a Charlotte Corday."
Salt made a quiet deprecating gesture. "A girl with a fearless truthful
face can be capable of any heroism," he remarked as he began to write.
"Especially when she combines exceptional intelligence with exceptional
discretion. Only," he added as an afterthought, "it may be uncalled-for,
and might be inconvenient in a law-abiding constitutional age."
"I quite understand that now; the conscientious addressing of circulars
shall bound my horizon. Only, please let me be somewhere in it, when it
_does_ come."
"I say, Salt," drawled an immaculately garbed young man, lounging into
the room, "do you happen----"
Miss Lisle, who had been cut off from the door by a screen, rose to
leave.
"Oh, I say, I beg your pardon," exclaimed the young man. "They told me
that you were alone."
"I shall be disengaged in a moment," replied Salt formally. "At ten
o'clock to-morrow morning then, Miss Lisle, please." She bowed and
withdrew, the Honourable Freddy Tantroy, who had lingered rather
helplessly, holding the door as she went out and favouring her with a
criticising glance.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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