it from your wages, got it with your sweat. You've given up your
beer for it--aye, and maybe your baccy. We've saved the money and the
time's come to fight. All that he says"--jerking his elbow towards
Maraton--"sounds good enough. That'll come in later. Are you for the
strike?"

There was no doubt about the reply--a roar of approving voices. Maraton
smiled at them and stepped down from the platform. For the moment he
was forgotten. Only Julia whispered passionately in his ear as they
moved out of the place.

"You should have gone on. They didn't understand. They have waited so
long, they could have waited a little longer."

Maraton did not answer until they reached the street. Then he stood a
few steps in the background, watching the people as they came out.

"I couldn't," he said simply. "I felt as though I were offering stones
for bread. The stones were better, perhaps, but the cruelty was the
same."

CHAPTER X

Maraton walked alone with Elisabeth on the following afternoon in the
flower garden at Lyndwood. She was apologising for some unexpected
additions to the number of their guests.

"Mother always forgets whom she has asked down for the week-end," she
said, "and my uncle is far too sweet about it. I know that he wanted to
have as much time as possible alone with you before Monday. It is on
Monday you go to Manchester, isn't it?"

"On Monday," he answered, a little absently. "I have to make my bow to
the democracy of your country in the evening."

"I wish I could make up my mind, Mr. Maraton," she continued, "whether
you have come over here for good or for evil."

"For evil that good may come of it, I am afraid," he rejoined, "would be
the kindest interpretation you could put upon my enterprise here."

"The Spectator calls you the Missionary of Unrest."

"The Spectator, I am afraid, will become more violent later on."

"Let us sit down here for a moment," she suggested, pointing to a seat.
"You see, we are just at the top of this long pathway, and we get a view
of the roses all the way down."

"It is very beautiful," he admitted,--"far too beautiful."

She raised her eyebrows.

"Too beautiful? Is that possible?"

"Without a doubt," he declared. "Too much beauty is as bad as too
little."

"And why is that? Surely it must be good for one to be surrounded by
inspiring things?"

"I am not sure that beauty does inspire anything except content," he
answered, smiling. "I call this garden of