a little puzzled at the other's
unresponsiveness. "This isn't just a whim. I am really interested in
these matters, but it is so hard to help, unless one is put in the right
way."

"The time has passed," Julia pronounced, "when patronage is of any
assistance to such societies as the one we were speaking of. Nothing is
of any use now but hard, grim work. We don't want money. We don't need
support of any kind whatever. We need work and brains."

"I am afraid," Elisabeth said, as she held out her hand, "that you think
I am incapable of either."

Julia's lips were tightly compressed. She made no reply. Mr. Foley
glanced back at her curiously as they stepped into the car.

"What a singularly forbidding young woman!" he remarked.

Elisabeth shrugged her shoulders. It is given to women to understand
much! . . . The car glided off. As they neared the corner of the
Square, they passed a stout, foreign-looking man with an enormous head,
a soft grey hat set far back, a quantity of fair hair, and the
ingenuous, eager look of a child. He was hurrying towards the corner
house and scarcely glanced in their direction. Mr. Foley, however,
leaned forward with interest.

"Who is that strange-looking person?" Elisabeth asked.

Mr. Foley became impressive.

"One of the greatest writers and philosophers of the day," he replied.
"I expect he is on his way to see Maraton. That was Henry Selingman."

CHAPTER XXVIII

Selingman took little heed of the cordon around Maraton. He brushed
them all to one side, and when at last confronted by the final barrier,
in the shape of Julia, he only patted her gently upon the back.

"Ah, but my dear child," he exclaimed, "you do not understand! Listen.
I raise my voice, I shout--like this--'Maraton, it is I who am
here--Selingman!' You see, he will come if he is within hearing. You
know of me, you pale-faced child? You have heard of Selingman, is it
not so?"

Before Julia could answer, the door of the study was opened.

"Come in," Maraton called out from an invisible place.

Selingman, with a little bow of triumph to Julia, passed down the
passage and into the library. He threw his hat upon the sofa and held
out both his hands to Maraton. Julia, who had followed him, sank into a
chair before her typewriter.

"I have made you famous, my friend," he declared. "You may quote these
words in after life as representing the full sublimity of my conceit,
but it is true. Have you read my 'Apprec