She had just taken down a little Italian statuette for my inspection, and she replaced it carefully before she answered. “No. We are friends. I have known him for a good many years.” A tiny Burmese gong rang out from the hall. She came across the room towards me, smiling pleasantly. “Shall we go and have some tea? I always want tea so much after a thunderstorm. I will show you some more of my Penates, if you like afterwards.” I followed her into the hall, and took my tea from the hands of a prim little maid servant. With the Dresden cup between my fingers a sudden thought flashed into my mind. If only Lady Naselton could see me. Unconsciously my lips parted, and I laughed outright. “Do forgive me,” I begged. “Something came into my mind. It was too funny. I could not help laughing.” “To be able to laugh at one’s thoughts is a luxury,” she answered. “I know a man who lived through a terrible illness solely because of his sense of humor. There are so many things to laugh at in the world, if only one sees them in the right light. Let me give you some more tea.” I set down my cup. “No more, thanks. That has been delicious. I wonder whether I might ask you a question?” I added. “I should like to if I might.” “Well, you certainly may,” she answered, good-humoredly. “Mr. Deville spoke of your work,” I continued; “and of course I could see you had been writing. Do you write fiction? I think it is so delightful for women to do anything for themselves--any real work, I mean. Do you mind my asking?” “I do not write fiction as a rule,” she said, slowly. “I write for the newspapers. I was a correspondent for several years for one of the dailies. I write more now for a purpose. I am one of the ‘abhorred tribe,’ you know--a Socialist, or what people understand as a Socialist. Are you horrified?” “Not in the least,” I answered her; “only I should like to know more about it. From what I have heard about Socialism I should never have dreamed of associating it with--well, with Dresden cups and saucers, for instance,” I laughed, motioning to her own. Her eyes twinkled. “Poor child,” she said, “you have all the old-fashioned ideas about us and our beliefs, I suppose. I am not sure that, if you were a properly regulated young lady, you would not get up and walk out of the house.” A shadow had fallen across the open doorway, and a familiar voice, stern, but tremulous with passion, took up her words. “That is precisely what my daughter will do, madam! At once, and without delay! Do you hear, Kate?” I rose to my feet dumb with amazement. My father’s tall figure, drawn to its utmost height, stood out with almost startling vividness against the sunlit space beyond. A deep red flush was on his pale cheeks. His eyes seemed on fire with anger. My hostess rose to her feet with dignity. “Your daughter is at liberty to remain or go at any time,” she said, coolly. “I presume that I am addressing Mr. Ffolliot?”