"One must not forget, though," he sighed, "that England is different.
To attain the same ends here, one may have to use somewhat different
methods."

For the moment, perhaps, she was stirred by some prophetic misgiving.
The hard common sense of his words fell like a cold douche upon the
furnace of her enthusiasms. She had imagined him a prophet, touched by
the great and unmistakable fire, ready to drive his chariot through all
the hosts of iniquity; irresistible, unassailable, cleaving his way
through the bending masses of their oppressors to the goal of their
desires. His words seemed to proclaim him a disciple of other methods.
There were to be compromises. His attire, his dwelling, this
luxuriously furnished room, so different from anything which she had
expected, proclaimed it. She herself held it part of the creed of her
life to be free from all ornaments, free from even the shadow of luxury.
Her throat was bare, her hair simply arranged, her fingers and wrists
innocent of even the simplest article of jewellery. He, on the other
hand, the Elijah of her dreams, appeared in the guise of a man of
fashion, wearing, as though he were used to them, the attire of the
hated class, obviously qualified by breeding and use to hold his place
amongst them. Was this indeed to be the disappointment of her life?
Then she remembered and her courage rose. After all, he was the Master.

"I will go now," she said. "I am glad to have been the first to have
welcomed you."

He held out his hands. Then for a moment they both listened and turned
towards the door. There was the sound of an angry voice--a visitor,
apparently trying to force his way in. Maraton strode towards the door
and opened it. A young man was in the hall, expostulating angrily with