PROMINENT PEOPLE
The of the Wind Vane Keeper would have Graham had he entered them fresh from his nineteenth century life, but already he was to the of the new time. He came out through one of the now familiar panels upon a of landing at the of a of very and steps, with men and more than any he had seen, and descending. From this position he looked a of and ornament in white and and purple, by that of and filigree, and off in a cloudy of screens.
Glancing upward, he saw above of with looking upon him. The air was full of the of voices and of a music that from above, a and music he did not discover.
The was thick with people, but by no means crowded; that must have numbered many thousands. They were brilliantly, dressed, the men as as the women, for the of the Puritan of upon dress had long since passed away. The of the men, too, though it was long, was in a manner that the barber, and had from the earth. Frizzy straight-cut that would have Rossetti abounded, and one gentleman, who was pointed out to Graham under the title of an "amorist," his in two à la Marguerite. The was in evidence; it would that citizens of Chinese were no longer of their race. There was little of fashion in the of worn. The more men their in hose, and here were and slashes, and there a and there a robe. The fashions of the days of Leo the Tenth were the influence, but the of the east were also patent. Masculine embonpoint, which, in Victorian times, would have been to the perils, the of tight-legged tight-armed dress, now but the of a of and folds. Graceful also. To Graham, a man from a period, not only did these men too in person, but too in their faces. They gesticulated, they surprise, interest, amusement, above all, they the in their minds by the ladies about them with frankness. Even at the it was that were in a great majority.
The ladies in the company of these in dress, and manner alike, less and more intricacy. Some a of and of fold, after the fashion of the First French Empire, and arms and as Graham passed. Others had closely-fitting without or at the waist, sometimes with long from the shoulders. The of dress had not been by the passage of two centuries.
Everyone's movements graceful. Graham to Lincoln that he saw men as Raphael's walking, and Lincoln told him that the of an set of was part of every rich person's education. The Master's entry was with a of applause, but these people their manners by not upon him him by any scrutiny, as he the steps the of the aisle.
He had already learnt from Lincoln that these were the of London society; almost every person there that night was either a powerful official or the of a powerful official. Many had returned from the European Pleasure Cities to welcome him. The authorities, had played a part in the of the Council only second to Graham's, were very prominent, and so, too, was the Wind Vane Control. Amongst others there were of the more officers of the Food Department; the of the European Piggeries had a particularly and and a manner. A in full passed Graham's vision, with a like the Chaucer, the wreath.
"Who is that?" he asked almost involuntarily.
"The Bishop of London," said Lincoln.
"No—the other, I mean."
"Poet Laureate."
"You still—?"
"He doesn't make poetry, of course. He's a of Wotton—one of the Councillors. But he's one of the Red Rose Royalists—a club—and they keep up the of these things."
"Asano told me there was a King."
"The King doesn't belong. They had to him. It's the Stuart blood, I suppose; but really—"
"Too much?"
"Far too much."
Graham did not all this, but it part of the of the new age. He to his introduction. It was that of class in this assembly, that only to a small of the guests, to an group, did Lincoln it to him. This was the Master Aeronaut, a man sun-tanned with the about him. Just at present his from the Council him a very person indeed.
His manner very favourably, according to Graham's ideas, with the bearing. He offered a remarks, of and about the Master's health. His manner was breezy, his the easy of latter-day English. He it clear to Graham that he was a "aerial dog"—he used that phrase—that there was no nonsense about him, that he was a and old-fashioned at that, that he didn't to know much, and that what he did not know was not knowing. He a bow, free from obsequiousness, and passed.
"I am to see that type endures," said Graham.
"Phonographs and kinematographs," said Lincoln, a little spitefully. "He has from the life." Graham at the again. It was reminiscent.
"As a of we him," said Lincoln. "Partly. And he was of Ostrog. Everything rested with him."
He to the Surveyor-General of the Public Schools. This person was a in a blue-grey gown, he upon Graham through pince-nez of a Victorian pattern, and his by of a hand. Graham was in this gentleman's functions, and asked him a number of direct questions. The Surveyor-General at the Master's bluntness. He was a little as to the of education his Company possessed; it was done by with the that ran the London Municipalities, but he over progress since the Victorian times. "We have Cram," he said, "completely Cram—there is not an left in the world. Aren't you glad?"
"How do you the work done?" asked Graham.
"We make it attractive—as as possible. And if it not then—we let it go. We an field."
He to details, and they had a conversation. Graham learnt that University Extension still in a form. "There is a type of girl, for example," said the Surveyor-General, with a of his usefulness, "with a perfect for studies—when they are not too difficult you know. We for them by the thousand. At this moment," he said with a Napoleonic touch, "nearly five hundred are in different parts of London on the by Plato and Swift on the love of Shelley, Hazlitt, and Burns. And they on the lectures, and the names in order of are put in places. You see how your little has grown? The middle-class of your days has passed away."
"About the public schools," said Graham. "Do you them?"
The Surveyor-General did, "entirely." Now, Graham, in his later days, had taken a in these and his quickened. Certain phrases that had from the old man with he had talked in the to him. The Surveyor-General, in effect, the old man's words. "We try and make the very for the little children. They will have to work so soon. Just a principles—obedience—industry."
"You teach them very little?"
"Why should we? It only leads to trouble and discontent. We them. Even as it is—there are troubles—agitations. Where the the ideas, one cannot tell. They tell one another. There are dreams—anarchy even! Agitators will to work among them. I take it—I have always taken it—that my is to against popular discontent. Why should people be unhappy?"
"I wonder," said Graham thoughtfully. "But there are a great many things
I want to know."
Lincoln, who had Graham's the conversation, intervened. "There are others," he said in an undertone.
The Surveyor-General of himself away. "Perhaps," said Lincoln, a glance, "you would like to know some of these ladies?"
The of the Manager of the Piggeries was a particularly little person with red and eyes. Lincoln left him to with her, and she herself as an for the "dear old days," as she called them, that had the of his trance. As she talked she smiled, and her in a manner that reciprocity.
"I have tried," she said, "countless times—to those old days. And to you—they are memories. How and the world must to you! I have and pictures of the past, the little houses of out of and all black with from your fires, the railway bridges, the advertisements, the Puritanical men in black and those tall of theirs, iron railway on iron overhead, and cattle, and dogs wild about the streets. And suddenly, you have come into this!"
"Into this," said Graham.
"Out of your life—out of all that was familiar."
"The old life was not a happy one," said Graham. "I do not that."
She looked at him quickly. There was a pause. She encouragingly. "No?"
"No," said Graham. "It was a little life—and unmeaning. But this—We the world and and enough. Yet I see—although in this world I am four days old—looking on my own time, that it was a queer, time—the of this new order. The of this new order. You will it hard to how little I know."
"You may ask me what you like," she said, at him.
"Then tell me who these people are. I'm still very much in the dark about them. It's puzzling. Are there any Generals?"
"Men in and feathers?"
"Of not. No. I they are the men who the great public businesses. Who is that looking man?"
"That? He's a most officer. That is Morden. He is of the Antibilious Pill Department. I have that his sometimes turn out a myriad pills a day in the twenty-four hours. Fancy a myriad!"
"A myriad. No wonder he looks proud," said Graham. "Pills! What a time it is! That man in purple?"
"He is not one of the circle, you know. But we like him. He is and very amusing. He is one of the of the Medical Faculty of our London University. All medical men, you know, wear that purple. But, of course, people who are paid by fees for doing something—" She away the social of all such people.
"Are any of your great or here?"
"No authors. They are mostly such people—and so about themselves. And they so dreadfully! They will fight, some of them, for on staircases! Dreadful, isn't it? But I think Wraysbury, the capillotomist, is here. From Capri."
"Capillotomist," said Graham. "Ah! I remember. An artist! Why not?"
"We have to him," she said apologetically. "Our are in his hands." She smiled.
Graham at the compliment, but his was expressive. "Have the with the of things?" he said. "Who are your great painters?"
She looked at him doubtfully. Then laughed. "For a moment," she said, "I you meant—" She laughed again. "You mean, of course, those good men you used to think so much of they great of with oil-colours? Great oblongs. And people used to put the in and them up in in their square rooms. We haven't any. People of that of thing."
"But what did you think I meant?"
She put a on a was above suspicion, and and looked very and and inviting. "And here," and she her eyelid.
Graham had an moment. Then a memory of a picture he had of Uncle Toby and the across his mind. An came upon him. He aware that he was visible to a great number of people. "I see," he inadequately. He away from her facility. He looked about him to meet a number of that themselves with other things. Possibly he a little. "Who is that talking with the lady in saffron?" he asked, her eyes.
The person in question he learnt was one of the great of the American theatres just fresh from a production at Mexico. His Graham of a of Caligula. Another looking man was the Black Labour Master. The phrase at the time no impression, but it recurred;—the Black Labour Master? The little lady in no embarrassed, pointed out to him a little woman as one of the of the Anglican Bishop of London. She added on the courage—hitherto there had been a of monogamy—"neither a natural an condition of things. Why should the natural of the be and restricted a man is a priest?"
"And, the bye," she added, "are you an Anglican?" Graham was on the of about the of a "subsidiary wife," an phrase, when Lincoln's return off this very and conversation. They the to where a tall man in crimson, and two in Burmese (as it to him) him diffidently. From their he passed to other presentations.
In a little while his to themselves into a effect. At the of the had all the in Graham; he had and satirical. But it is not in nature to an of regard. Soon the music, the light, the play of colours, the arms and about him, the touch of hands, the of faces, the of voices, the of compliment, and respect, had together into a of pleasure. Graham for a time his resolutions. He gave way to the of the position that was him, his manner more regal, his walked assuredly, the black with a and his voice. After all, this was a world.
He looked up and saw across a of and looking upon him, a that was almost hidden, the of the girl he had in the little room the theatre after his from the Council. And she was him.
For the moment he did not when he had her, and then came a memory of the of their encounter. But the dancing of about him the air of that great song from his memory.
The lady to he talked her remark, and Graham himself to the quasi-regal upon which he was engaged.
Yet, unaccountably, a restlessness, a that to dissatisfaction, came into his mind. He was as if by some duty, by the of from him this light and brilliance. The that these ladies who about him were to ceased. He no longer gave and to the that he was now were being to him, and his for another of the girl of the revolt.
Where, precisely, had he her?…
Graham was in one of the upper in with a bright-eyed lady on the of Eadhamite—the was his choice and not hers. He had her warm of personal with a matter-of-fact inquiry. He her, as he had already other latter-day that night, less well than charming. Suddenly, against the of nearer melody, the song of the Revolt, the great song he had in the Hall, and massive, came to him.
Ah! Now he remembered!
He up startled, and above him an de through which this song had come, and beyond, the upper of cable, the haze, and the of the lights of the public ways. He the song into a of voices and cease. He the and of the moving and a of many people. He had a that he not account for, a of that in the a must be this place in which their Master himself.
Though the song had stopped so abruptly, though the special music of this itself, the of the song, once it had begun, in his mind.
The bright-eyed lady was still with the of Eadhamite when he the girl he had in the theatre again. She was now along the him; he saw her she saw him. She was in a grey, her dark about her was like a cloud, and as he saw her the cold light from the opening into the upon her face.
The lady in trouble about the Eadhamite saw the in his expression, and her opportunity to escape. "Would you to know that girl, Sire?" she asked boldly. "She is Helen Wotton—a of Ostrog's. She a great many things. She is one of the most alive. I am sure you will like her."
In another moment Graham was talking to the girl, and the bright-eyed lady had away.
"I you well," said Graham. "You were in that little room.
When all the people were and time with their feet. Before
I walked across the Hall."
Her passed. She looked up at him, and her was steady. "It was wonderful," she said, hesitated, and spoke with a effort. "All those people would have died for you, Sire. Countless people did die for you that night."
Her glowed. She to see that no other her words.
Lincoln appeared some way off along the gallery, making his way through the press them. She saw him and to Graham eager, with a to and intimacy. "Sire," she said quickly, "I cannot tell you now and here. But the common people are very unhappy; they are oppressed—they are misgoverned. Do not the people, who death—death that you might live."
"I know nothing—" Graham.
"I cannot tell you now."
Lincoln's appeared close to them. He an to the girl.
"You the new world amusing, Sire?" asked Lincoln, with deference, and the space and of the by one gesture. "At any rate, you it changed."
"Yes," said Graham, "changed. And yet, after all, not so changed."
"Wait till you are in the air," said Lincoln. "The wind has fallen; now an you."
The girl's dismissal.
Graham at her face, was on the of a question, a in her expression, to her and to Lincoln.
