will
lead you out."

CHAPTER XIII

Mr. Foley and Lord Armley were waiting together in the library--not the
smaller apartment into which Julia had been shown, but a more spacious,
almost a stately room in the front part of the house. Upon Maraton's
entrance, Lord Armley changed his position, sitting further back amongst
the shadows in a low easy-chair. Maraton took his place so that he was
between the two men. It was Lord Armley who asked the first question.

"Mr. Maraton," he enquired, "are you an Englishman?"

"I think that I may call myself so," Maraton replied, with a smile. "I
was born in America, but my parents were English."

"I asked," Lord Armley continued, "whether you were an Englishman, for
two reasons. One was--well, perhaps you might call it curiosity; the
other because, if you are an Englishman, Mr. Foley and I are going to
make a strong and I hope successful appeal to your patriotism."

"I am afraid," Maraton replied, "that you will be appealing to a
sentiment of which I am ignorant."

"Do you mean," Mr. Foley asked, "that you have no impulse of affection
for your own country?"

"For my country as she exists at present, none at all," Maraton
answered. "That is where I am afraid we shall find this conference so
unsatisfactory. I am not subject to any of the ordinary convictions of
life."

"That certainly makes the task of arguing with you a little difficult,"
Mr. Foley admitted. "We had hoped that the vision of this country
overrun by a triumphant enemy, our towns and our pleasant places in the
hands of an alien race, our women subject to insults from them, our men
treated with scorn--we had an idea that the vision of these things might
count with you for something."

"For nothing at all," Maraton replied. "I am not sure that a successful
invasion of this country would not be one of the best medicines she
could possibly have."

"Are you serious, sir?" Lord Armley asked grimly.

"Absolutely," Maraton answered, without a second's hesitation. "You
people have, after all, only an external feeling for the deficiencies of
your social system. You don't feel, really--you don't understand. To
me, England at the present day--the whole of civilization, indeed, but
we are speaking now only of England--is suffering from an awful disease.
To me she is like a leper. I cannot think that any operation which
could cure her is too severe. She may have to spend centuries in the
hospital, but some day the