"I am glad," he declared, "very glad that you are at least going to
think over what I have said. You must have common sense. I have read
your book, backwards and forwards. I have read your articles in the
American reviews and in the English papers. There is nothing more
splendid than the visions you write of, but there is no gangway across
from this world into the world of dreams, Mr. Maraton. Remember that,
and remember, too, how great your responsibility is. I have never tried
to hide from you what I believe your real power to be. I have always
said that the moment a real leader was found, the country would be in
danger. You are that leader. For God's sake, Mr. Maraton, realise
your responsibility! . . . Now shall we go back into the gardens or
into the drawing-room? My niece will sing to us, if you are fond of
music."

Maraton excused himself and slipped out into the gardens alone. For
more than an hour he walked restlessly about, without relief, without
gaining any added clearness of vision. The atmosphere of the place
seemed to him somehow enervating. The little 'walk amongst the
rhododendrons was still fragrant 'with perfume, reminiscent of that
strange moment of emotion. The air was still languorous. Although the
nightingale's song had ceased, the atmosphere seemed still vibrating
with the music of his past song. He stood before the window of the room
where he had talked with Julia. What would she say, he wondered? Would
she think that he had sold his soul if he chose the more peaceful way?
It was a night of perplexed thoughts, confused emotions. One thing only
was clear. For the first time in his life certain dreams, which had
been as dear to him as life itself, had received a shattering blow.
Always he had spoken and acted from conviction. It was that which had
given his words their splendid force. It was that which had made the
words which he had spoken live as though they had been winged with fire.
Perhaps it was his own fault. Perhaps he should have avoided altogether
this house of the easier ways.

CHAPTER XIV

From the atmosphere of Lyndwood Park and its surroundings--fragrant,
almost epicurean--Maraton passed to the hard squalor of the great
smoke-hung city of the north. There were no beautiful women or cultured
men to bid him welcome. The Labour Member and his companion, who
hastened him out of the train at Derby and into an open motor-car, were
hard-featured Lancashire men, keen on their work a