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Then she saw Barnabas. Her work having lain hitherto in the kitchen rather than in the upstair regions, she was not used to the appearance of young men in Turkish dressing-gowns, and she blushed.

“Morning,” said Barnabas pleasantly, smiling at the girl. She made him think of a wild-rose.

“Good morning, sir,” said Sally, and she dropped a curtsey.

Barnabas looked at her with approval.

“Where did you learn to make curtsies, child? I thought they’d gone out of fashion with Bibles, brown sugar on bread and butter, and old ladies.”

Sally dropped another curtsey from pure nervousness.

“Please, sir, mother taught me, sir. She was still-room maid in a big house before she married father. She said born ladies curtseyed to the King and Queen, and we curtseyed to the born ladies—and gentlemen,” she added.

“Then your mother, child, is not a Socialist,” said Barnabas.

“Please, sir, mother says,” said Sally seriously, “that Socialism is a lot of silly talk among discontented people who’d be discontented if they had the moon to play with. She says Christ’s socialism was love and respect.”