“It is no worse than a general strike, my lord. I saw a few of the Music Hall artists of the Mile-End Road, Hackney and Poplar, and they all say the same thing: the people are not at all thinking of rioting; the injustice of their condition is robbed of its bitter sting, because they know all England and all classes to be in the same predicament. Besides, they do not believe for one minute that this condition will last, and are convinced there will be a recrudescence of luxury, and therefore work, to compensate their present loss a thousandfold.” “Lucky state of bliss is that apathy, so wrongly called self-control! But I am asking for more, Dick, for I am not wholly satisfied with the remedies you have suggested to me, and I thirst for something fabulous.” “Your lordship is fastidious, but I have told you before: we give hints, we do not develop theories. Look inwardly, my lord, and perhaps in that secret chamber of which I spoke to you will you see something to arrest your attention.” CHAPTER VII Lionel was not listening to his companion any longer; his mind had wandered from the East-End to the present scene, and gradually losing sight of his surroundings, his eyes lingered rapturously on a feminine form of unsurpassed beauty. Her elbow resting on an Etruscan vase, she leaned her soft cheek on the palm of her hand and looked up inquiringly at a portrait by Lely, representing the ancestress of one of our fashionable women. Lionel had never seen such grace, such simplicity—the word innocence fluttered on his lips, but soon vanished; he had rarely connected that quality with any of the women of his world. But, innocent or not, the form before him was faultless; the setting of the head on the shoulders perfect, the Grecian features radiantly pure. Who could she be? No matter, she was beauty, womanhood, that was sufficient, and it filled his heart with beatitude to gaze on such perfection without having to read the label attached to it. Dick was right, no guide could enlighten him as to what were his feelings. He had never seen her before; no doubt, she was a foreigner landed here on the day of the storm. Greece alone could have given birth to such a symmetric form and such harmony of movements. He moved away from his porphyry column as in a trance, leaving Danford to converse with a celebrity who wanted to know who someone else was; on his approaching the unknown beauty, his eyes lingered more intently on her exquisite face, and he contemplated her lovely hazel eyes shaded by long dark eyelashes. It was the only thing a man could contemplate now—a woman’s face; for, however demoralised a man might be, he defied him from ever behaving indelicately to a woman in the state of nature. As he came close to her, she dropped her eyelids and levelled her gaze to his; they looked into each other’s eyes—and they loved. “Allow me to lead you to a lounge,—you seem tired.”