He struck a match and lit the lamp of a little coffee machine which stood upon the table. She sprang eagerly to her feet.
"Let me, please," she begged. "I understand those things. Please let me make the coffee."
He laughed and, going to the cabinet, brought another of the old blue china cups and saucers. With very deft fingers she manipulated the machine. Presently, when her task was finished, she sat back in her chair, her coffee cup in her hand, her great eyes fixed upon him. She had the air of a person entirely content.
"And you," she replied, still with that note of suppressed yet passionate reverence in her tone, "are Maraton."
"The women workers of the world owe you a great deal," he said.
"But it is so little that one can do," she answered, quivering with pleasure at his words. "One needs inspiration, direction. Now that you have come, it will be different; it will be wonderful!"
She leaned towards him, and once more Maraton was conscious of the splendid mobility of her trembling body. She was a revelation to him--a modern Joan of Arc.
"Remember that I am no magician," he warned her.
"Ah, but your very presence alters everything!" she cried. "It makes everything possible--everything. My brother, too, is mad with excitement. He hoped that you might have been at the Clarion Hall to-night, before you went to Downing Street. You have seen Mr. Foley and talked with him?"
"I have come straight from there," he told her. "Foley is a shrewd man. He sees the writing upon the wall. He is afraid."
"They will try to buy you," she remarked scornfully. "They will try to deal with you as they did with Blake and others like him--you--Maraton! Oh, I wonder if England knows what it means, your coming!--if she really feels the breaking dawn!"
"Tell me about yourself?" Maraton asked, a little abruptly--"your work? I know you only by name, remember--your articles in the reviews and your evidence before the Woman Labour Commission.
"I am a tailoress," she replied. "It is horrible work, but I have the good fortune to be quick. I can make a living--there are many who cannot."
He was leaning back in his chair, his head supported by his hand, his eyes fixed curiously upon her. Her pallor was not wholly the pallor of ill-health. In her beautiful eyes shone the fire of life. She laughed at him softly and held out her hands for his inspection. They were shapely enough, but her finger-tips were scotched and pricked.