She listened to him, however, while he told her about the inquest he had
that day attended. She had volunteered an inquiry, and when he said in
mild surprise, “My dear, it never occurred to me to mention it, because
I know you don’t care much for the factory,” she replied, “You may as
well tell me,” thinking how little discrimination he showed between the
things that might interest her and those that could not possibly be
expected to do so, “Emma said something about it while I was dressing.”
“Gossip, of course,” he said, restrained but displeased, and she
shrugged and murmured, “Prig....”
In the end he told her, though without enthusiasm; and the story stirred
the rather stagnant pool of her curiosity. One or two of his phrases,
pronounced meditatively, had put her on the scent of something unusual,
something that might while away a portion of the dreary time, though
calling for very little effort on her part,—she could not endure the
idea of effort. “He speaks like an educated man,” her husband had said
of the blind factory-hand, “or a great deal better than most educated
men speak, and I believe he is entirely self-taught. It appears that he
has a hunger for books.... And a born speaker, like some of those
ranting parsons one hears sometimes talking to a crowd from a tub. All
the makings of a demagogue. I should like to assist at one of his
performances at the debating society; Calthorpe gives me to understand
that they’re remarkable. He’s full of ideas—Utopian mostly—exposes them
ably, works them out in both scope and detail, convinces his audience,
or at any rate stirs them—and then demolishes the whole fabric—out of
pure devilry. I wonder what the fellow’s mind is like inside? A black
business, I should fancy!”
“I have heard of him before,” said Lady Malleson.
“I dare say he is merely a disgruntled Socialist,” said Malleson, who
was already ashamed of having been led away into such speculative
wordiness.