'Free from what?' the Princess asked.
'From some abominable brotherhood or international league that he belongs to, the thought of which keeps me awake at night. He's just the sort of youngster to be made a catspaw.'
'Your fears seem very vague.'
'I hoped you would give me chapter and verse.'
'On what do your suspicions rest? What grounds have you?' the Princess inquired.
'Well, a great many; none of them very definite, but all contributing something—his appearance, his manner, the way he strikes me. Dear madam, one feels those things, one guesses. Do you know that poor, infatuated phrasemonger, Eustache Poupin, who works at the same place as Hyacinth? He's a very old friend of mine, and he's an honest man, considering everything. But he is always conspiring, and corresponding, and pulling strings that make a tinkle which he takes for the death-knell of society. He has nothing in life to complain of, and he drives a roaring trade. But he wants folks to be equal, heaven help him; and when he has made them so I suppose he's going to start a society for making the stars in the sky all of the same size. He isn't serious, though he thinks that he's the only human being who never trifles; and his machinations, which I believe are for the most part very innocent, are a matter of habit and tradition with him, like his theory that Christopher Columbus, who discovered America, was a Frenchman, and his hot footbath on Saturday nights. He has not confessed to me that Hyacinth has taken some secret engagement to do something for the cause which may have nasty consequences,
