attire. "Yet
what does that matter? It is because I do not understand."

The little lines about his eyes deepened. He laughed softly.

"I only hope that the others will adopt your attitude. I hear that many
of them have very decided views about evening dress and small luxuries
of any description."

"Graveling and Peter Dale--especially Dale--are terrible," she declared.
"Dale is very narrow, indeed. You must bear with them if they are
foolish at first. They are uncultured and rough. They do not quite
understand. Sometimes they do not see far enough. But to-morrow you
will meet them. You will be at the Clarion to-morrow?"

"I am not sure," he answered thoughtfully. "I am thinking matters
over. To-morrow I shall meet the men of whom you have spoken, and a few
others whose names I have on my list, and consult with them.
Personally, I am not sure as to the wisdom of opening my lips until
after our meeting at Manchester."

"Oh, don't say that!" she begged. "What we all need so much is
encouragement, inspiration. Our greatest danger is lethargy. There are
millions who stare into the darkness, who long for a single word of
hope. Their eyes are almost tired. Come and speak to us to-morrow as
you spoke to the men and women of Chicago."

He smiled a little grimly.

"You forget that this is England. Until the time comes, one must choose
one's words. It is just what would please our smug enemies best to have
me break their laws before I have been here long enough to become
dangerous."

"You broke the laws of America," she protested eagerly.

"I had a million men and women primed for battle at my back," he
reminded her. "The warrant was signed for my arrest, but no one dared
to serve it. All the same, I had to leave the country with some work
half finished."

"It was a glorious commencement," she cried enthusiastically.

"One must not forget, though," he sighed, "that England is different.
To attain the same ends here, one may have to use somewhat different
methods."

For the moment, perhaps, she was stirred by some prophetic misgiving.
The hard common sense of his words fell like a cold douche upon the
furnace of her enthusiasms. She had imagined him a prophet, touched by
the great and unmistakable fire, ready to drive his chariot through all
the hosts of iniquity; irresistible, unassailable, cleaving his way
through the bending masses of their oppressors to the goal of their
desires. His words seemed to proclaim hi