f cities."

"Ah, but you wouldn't like to go out in it," said Peter Crowl. As he
spoke the drizzle suddenly thickened into a torrent.

"We do not always kiss the woman we love."

"Speak for yourself, Denzil. I'm only a plain man, and I want to know if
Nature isn't a Fad. Hallo, there goes Mortlake! Lord, a minute of this
will soak him to the skin."

The labor leader was walking along with bowed head. He did not seem to
mind the shower. It was some seconds before he even heard Crowl's
invitation to him to take shelter. When he did hear it he shook his
head.

"I know I can't offer you a drawing-room with duchesses stuck about it,"
said Peter, vexed.

Tom turned the handle of the shop door and went in. There was nothing in
the world which now galled him more than the suspicion that he was
stuck-up and wished to cut old friends. He picked his way through the
nine brats who clung affectionately to his wet knees, dispersing them
finally by a jet of coppers to scramble for. Peter met him on the stair
and shook his hand lovingly and admiringly, and took him into Mrs.
Crowl's bedroom.

"Don't mind what I say, Tom. I'm only a plain man, and my tongue will
say what comes uppermost! But it ain't from the soul, Tom, it ain't from
the soul," said Peter, punning feebly, and letting a mirthless smile
play over his sallow features. "You know Mr. Cantercot, I suppose? The
poet."

"Oh, yes; how do you do, Tom? Seen the 'New Pork Herald' lately? Not
bad, those old times, eh?"

"No," said Tom, "I wish I was back in them."

"Nonsense, nonsense," said Peter, in much concern. "Look at the good you
are doing to the working man. Look how you are sweeping away the Fads.
Ah, it's a grand thing to be gifted, Tom. The idea of your chuckin'
yourself away on a composin' room! Manual labor is all very well for
plain men like me, with no gift but just enough brains to see into the
realities of things--to understand that we've got no soul and no
immortality, and all that--and too selfish to look after anybody's
comfort but my own and mother's and the kid's. But men like you and
Cantercot--it ain't right that you should be peggin' away at low
material things. Not that I think Cantercot's gospel's any value to the
masses. The Beautiful is all very well for folks who've got nothing else
to think of, but give me the True. You're the man for my money,
Mortlake. No reference to the funds, Tom, to which I contribute little
enough, Heaven knows; th