sat there in my office gazing out of the window I
found myself repeating certain phrases he had used--the phrase about
leadership, for instance. It was a tremendous conception of Democracy,
that of acquiescence to developed leadership made responsible; a
conception I was compelled to confess transcended Mr. Watling's, loyal as
I was to him.... I began to reflect how novel all this was in a political
speech--although what I have quoted was in the nature of a preamble. It
was a sermon, an educational sermon. Well, that is what sermons always
had been,--and even now pretended to be,--educational and stirring,
appealing to the emotions through the intellect. It didn't read like the
Socialism he used to preach, it had the ring of religion. He had called
it religion.

With an effort of the will I turned from this ironical and dangerous
vision of a Hugh Paret who might have been enlisted in an inspiring
struggle, of a modern yet unregenerate Saul kicking against the pricks,
condemned to go forth breathing fire against a doctrine that made a true
appeal; against the man I believed I hated just because he had made this
appeal. In the act of summoning my counter-arguments I was interrupted by
the entrance of Grierson. He was calling on a matter of business, but
began to talk about the extracts from Krebs's speech he had read in the
Mail and State.

"What in hell is this fellow driving at, Paret?" he demanded. "It sounds
to me like the ranting of a lunatic dervish. If he thinks so much of us,
and the way we run the town, what's he squawking about?"

I looked at Grierson, and conceived an intense aversion for him. I
wondered how I had ever been able to stand him, to work with him. I saw
him in a sudden flash as a cunning, cruel bird of prey, a gorged, drab
vulture with beady eyes, a resemblance so extraordinary that I wondered I
had never remarked it before. For he had the hooked vulture nose, while
the pink baldness of his head was relieved by a few scanty tufts of hair.

"The people seem to like what he's got to say," I observed.

"It beats me," said Grierson. "They don't understand a quarter of
it--I've been talking to some of 'em. It's their d--d curiosity, I guess.
You know how they'll stand for hours around a street fakir."

"It's more than that," I retorted.

Grierson regarded me piercingly.

"Well, we'll put a crimp in him, all right," he said, with a laugh.

I was in an unenviable state of mind when he left me. I