nly arrives to-night," he remarked presently.

"What matter?" Selingman replied. "He is like me--he is tireless, and
though his body be weary, his brain is ever working."

"What do they say on the Continent about his coming?" Mr. Foley
enquired. "We thought that he was settled for life in Rome."

Selingman shook his head portentously.

"Politics," he declared, "ah! in the abstract they are wonderful, but
in the concrete they do not interest me. Maxendorf has come here,
doubtless, with great schemes in his mind."

"Schemes of friendship or of enmity?" Mr. Foley asked swiftly.

Selingman's shoulders were hunched.

"Who can tell? Who can tell the thoughts which his brain has conceived?
Maxendorf is a silent man. He is the first people's champion who has
ever held high office in his country. You see, he has the gifts which
no one can deny. He moves forward to whatever place he would occupy,
and he takes it. He is in politics as I in literature."

The man's magnificent egotism passed unnoticed. Curiously enough, the
truth of it was so apparent that its expression seemed natural.

"I must confess," Mr. Foley said quietly, "to you two alone, that I had
rather he had come at some other time. Selingman, you are indeed one of
the happiest of the earth. You have no responsibilities save the
responsibilities you owe to your genius. The only call to which you
need listen is the call to give to the world the thoughts and music
which beat in your brain. And with us, things are different. There is
the future of a country, the future of an Empire, always at stake, when
one sleeps and when one wakes."

Selingman nodded his head vigorously.

"Frankly," he admitted, "I sympathise with you. Responsibility I hate.
And yours, Mr. Foley," he added, "is a great one. I am a friend of
England. I am a friend of the England who should be. As your country
is to-day, I fear that she has very few friends indeed, apart from her
own shores. You may gain allies from reasons of policy, but you have
not the national gifts which win friendship."

"How do you account for it?" Mr. Foley asked him.

"Your Press, for one thing," Selingman replied; "your Press, written for
and inspired with the whole spirit of the bourgeoisie. You prate about
your Empire, but you've never learnt yet to think imperially. But
there, it is not for this I crossed the Channel. It is to be with
Maraton."

"So long as you do not take him from me, I will not grudge you h