er.
They know what the Government did in Lancashire and they know what they
tried to do at Sheffield. With the railway companies they'll have even
more influence."

"Let us dine," Selingman insisted, welcoming the approach of the
waiters. "You see me, a man of forty-five, robust, the picture of
health. How do I do it? In this manner. When I dine, all cares go to
the winds. When I dine, I forget the hard places, I let my brain free of
its burden. I talk nonsense I love best with a pretty woman. To-night
we will talk with Miss Julia. You see, I have brought her more flowers.
She does not wear them, but they lie by her plate."

"I have never worn an ornament in my life," Julia told him, "and I don't
think that any one has ever given me flowers."

Selingman groaned.

"Oh, what pitiful words!" he exclaimed. "If there is one thing sadder
in life than the slavery of the people, it is to find a woman who has
forgotten her sex. Almost you inspire me, young lady, with the desire
to take you by the hand and offer you my escort into the gentler ways.
If I were sure of success, not even my fair friends on the other side of
the Channel could keep me from your feet. Maraton, look away from the
walls. There's nothing beyond--just a world full of fancies. There's
some _Sole Otero_ on your plate which is worth tasting, and there's
champagne in your glass. What matter if there are troubles outside?
That's good--there is music."

He beckoned to the chef d'orchestre, engaged him for a few moments in
conversation, poured him out a glass of wine, and slipped something into
his hand. Then he recommenced his dinner with a chuckle of
satisfaction.

"The little man can play," he declared. "He has it in his fingers. We
shall hear now the waltzes that I love. Ah, Miss Julia, why is this not
Paris! Why can I not get up and put my arm around your waist and whisper
in your ear as we float round and round in a waltz? Stupid questions!
I am too short to dance with you, for one thing, and much too fat, But
one loves to imagine. Listen."

Maraton had already set down his knife and fork. The strains of the
waltz had come to him with a queer note of familiarity, a familiarity
which at first he found elusive. Then, as the movement progressed, he
remembered. Once more he was sitting in that distant corner of the
winter garden, hearing every now and then the faint sound of the
orchestra from the ballroom. It was the same waltz; alas, the same
music w