She had imagined him a prophet, touched by the great and unmistakable fire, ready to drive his chariot through all the hosts of iniquity; irresistible, unassailable, cleaving his way through the bending masses of their oppressors to the goal of their desires.

His words seemed to proclaim him a disciple of other methods.
There were to be compromises.

His attire, his dwelling, this luxuriously furnished room, so different from anything which she had expected, proclaimed it.

She herself held it part of the creed of her life to be free from all ornaments, free from even the shadow of luxury.
Her throat was bare, her hair simply arranged, her fingers and wrists innocent of even the simplest article of jewellery.

He, on the other hand, the Elijah of her dreams, appeared in the guise of a man of fashion, wearing, as though he were used to them, the attire of the hated class, obviously qualified by breeding and use to hold his place amongst them.