of his
faith, the tempest of his enthusiasm. I had enough experience of public
speaking to distinguish between the theatrical and the genuine in
oratory. Here was no tub-thumping soothsayer, but an inspired zealot. He
lived his impassioned creed in every fibre of his frame and faculties.
He was Titanic, this rough miner, in his unconquerable hope, divine in
his yearning love of humanity.

When he ended there was a dead silence for a second, and then a roar of
applause from the pale, earnest, city-stamped faces. A lump rose in my
throat. Campion clutched my knee. A light burned in his eyes.

"Well? What about Boanerges?"

"Only one thing," said I, "I wish I were as alive as that man."

A negligible person proposed a vote of thanks to Milligan, after which
the hall began to empty. Campion, caught by a group of his proletariat
friends, signalled to me to wait for him. And as I waited I saw Eleanor
Faversham come slowly from the platform down the central gangway. Her
eyes fixed themselves on me at once--for standing there alone I must
have been a conspicuous figure, an intruder from the gorgeous West--and
with a little start of pleasure she hurried her pace. I made my way past
the chattering loiterers in my row, and met her. We shook hands.

"Well? Saul among the prophets? Who would have thought of seeing you
here!"

I waved my hand towards Campion. "We have the same sponsor." She glanced
at him for a swift instant and then at me.

"Did you like it?"

"Have you seen Niagara?"

"Yes."

"Did you like it?"

"I'm so glad," she cried. "I thought perhaps----" she broke off. "Why
haven't you tried to see me?"

"There are certain conventions."

"I know," she said. "They're idiotic."

"There's also Mrs. Faversham," said I.

"Mother is the dearest thing in life," she replied, "but Mrs. Faversham
is a convention." She came nearer to me, in order to allow a freer
passage down the gangway and also in order to be out of earshot of an
elderly woman who was obviously accompanying her. "Simon, I've been a
good friend to you. I believe in you. Nothing will shake my convictions.
You couldn't look into my eyes like that if--well--you know."

"I couldn't," said I.

"Then why can't two honourable, loyal people meet? We only need meet
once. But I want to tell you things I can't write--things I can't
say here. I also want to hear of things. I think I've got a kind of
claim--haven't I?"

"I've told you, Eleanor. My letters-