w very badly.

But that was precisely it--it would "shake out some of the supporters,"
and give Gurnard his patent excuse. Churchill, I knew, would stick to
his line, the saner policy. But so many of the men who had stuck to
Churchill would fall away now, and Gurnard, of course, would lead them
to his own triumph.

It was a criminal verdict. Callan had gone out as a commissioner--with a
good deal of drum-beating. And this was his report, this shriek. If it
sounded across the house-tops--if I let it--good-by to the saner policy
and to Churchill. It did not make any difference that Churchill's _was_
the saner policy, because there was no one in the nation sane enough to
see it. They wanted purity in high places, and here was a definite,
criminal indictment against de Mersch. And de Mersch would--in a manner
of speaking, have to be lynched, policy or no policy.

She wanted this, and in all the earth she was the only desirable thing.
If I thwarted her--she would ... what would she do now? I looked at
Soane.

"What would happen if I stopped the presses?" I asked. Soane was
twisting his corkscrew in the wire of the champagne bottle.

It was fatal; I could see nothing on earth but her. What else was there
in the world. Wine? The light of the sun? The wind on the heath? Honour!
My God, what was honour to me if I could see nothing but her on earth?
Would honour or wine or sun or wind ever give me what she could give?
Let them go.

"What would happen if what?" Soane grumbled, "_D--n_ this wire."

"Oh, I was thinking about something," I answered. The wire gave with a
little snap and he began to ease the cork. Was I to let the light pass
me by for the sake of ... of Fox, for instance, who trusted me? Well,
let Fox go. And Churchill and what Churchill stood for; the probity; the
greatness and the spirit of the past from which had sprung my
conscience and the consciences of the sleeping millions around me--the
woman at the poultry show with her farmers and shopkeepers. Let them go
too.

Soane put into my hand one of his charged glasses. He seemed to rise out
of the infinite, a forgotten shape. I sat down at the desk opposite him.

"Deuced good idea," he said, suddenly, "to stop the confounded presses
and spoof old Fox. He's up to some devilry. And, by Jove, I'd like to
get my knife in him; Jove, I would. And then chuck up everything and
leave for the Sandwich Islands. I'm sick of this life, this dog's
life.... One might ha