The Socialist

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Thorne Guy. The Socialist

CHAPTER I. CONCERNING HIS GRACE THE DUKE OF PADDINGTON

CHAPTER II "HAIR LIKE RIPE CORN"

CHAPTER III. A MOST SURPRISING DAY

CHAPTER IV. THE MAN WITH THE MUSTARD-COLOURED BEARD

CHAPTER V "TO INAUGURATE A REVOLUTION!"

CHAPTER VI. THE GREAT NEW PLAN

CHAPTER VII. KIDNAPPING UPON SCIENTIFIC PRINCIPLES

CHAPTER VIII "IN CELLAR COOL!"

CHAPTER IX. MARY MARRIOTT'S INITIATION

CHAPTER X. NEWS ARRIVES AT OXFORD

CHAPTER XI. THE DISCOVERY

CHAPTER XII. AT THE BISHOP'S TOWN HOUSE

CHAPTER XIII. NEW FRIENDS: NEW IDEAS

CHAPTER XIV. AT THE PARK LANE THEATRE

CHAPTER XV. THE MANUSCRIPT IN THE LIBRARY

CHAPTER XVI. ARTHUR BURNSIDE'S VIEWS

CHAPTER XVII. THE COMING OF LOVE

CHAPTER XVIII. A LOVER, AND NEWS OF LOVERS

CHAPTER XIX. TROUBLED WATERS

CHAPTER XX. THE DUKE KNOWS AT LAST

CHAPTER XXI. IN THE STAGE BOX AT THE PARK LANE THEATRE

CHAPTER XXII. THE SUPPER ON THE STAGE

CHAPTER XXIII. POINTS OF VIEW FROM A DUKE, A BISHOP, A VISCOUNT, AND THE DAUGHTER OF AN EARL

CHAPTER XXIV "LOVE CROWNS THE DEED"

EPILOGUE

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The duke was reciting his adventure with the valet to his three guests, but he glanced most often at Lady Constance Camborne.

No, the society journals and society talk hadn't exaggerated her beauty a bit – she was far and away the loveliest girl he had ever seen. He knew it directly she came into the room with Lord Hayle and the bishop, the influence of such extraordinary beauty was felt like a physical blow. The girl was of a Saxon type, but with all the colouring accentuated. The hair which crowned the small, patrician head in shining masses was golden. But it was not pale gold, metallic gold, or flaxen. It was a deep, rich gold, an "old gold," and the duke, with a somewhat unaccustomed flight of fancy, compared it in his mind to ripe corn. Her eyebrows were very dark brown, almost black, and the great eyes, with their long black lashes, were dark as a southern night. Under their great coronet of yellow hair, and set in a face whose contour was a pure and perfect oval, with a skin like the inside of a seashell, the contrast was extraordinarily effective. Her beautiful lips had the rare lines of the unbroken Greek bow, and their colour was like wine. She was tall in figure, even as though some marble goddess had stepped down from her pedestal in the Louvre and assumed the garments of the daughters of men. Some people said that, beautiful as she was in every way, her crowning beauty was her hands. She had sat to Pozzi, at Milan, at the great sculptor's earnest request, so that he might perpetuate the glory of her hands for ever. Mr. Swinburne had written a sonnet, shown only to a favoured few and never published, about her hands.

.....

With an apology, the duke opened the flimsy orange-coloured wrapping.

Then he started, his face grew rather paler, and he gave a sudden exclamation. "Good heavens!" he said, "listen to this:

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