tick of the
clock a fellow creature dies."

"It is a question," Mr. Hannaway Wells reflected, "whether the present
generation is not inclined to be mawkish with regard to human life.
History has shown us the marvellous benefits which have accrued to
the greatest nations through the lessening of population by means of
warfare."

"History has also shown us," Doctor Lennard observed, "that the last
resource of force is force. No brain has ever yet devised a logical
scheme for international arbitration."

"Human nature, I am afraid, has changed extraordinarily little since the
days of the Philistines," the Bishop confessed.

Julian turned to his companion.

"Well, they've all settled it amongst themselves, haven't they?" he
murmured. "Here you may sit and listen to what may be called the modern
voice."

"Yet there is one thing wanting," she whispered. "What do you suppose,
if he were here at this moment, Paul Fiske would say? Do you think that
he would be content to listen to these brazen voices and accept their
verdict?"

"Without irreverence," Julian answered, "or comparison, would Jesus
Christ?"

"With the same proviso," she retorted, "I might reply that Jesus Christ,
from all we know of him, might reign wonderfully in the Kingdom of
Heaven, but he certainly wouldn't be able to keep together a Cabinet in
Downing Street! Still, I am beginning to believe in your sincerity. Do
you think that Paul Fiske is sincere?"

"I believe," Julian replied, "that he sees the truth and struggles to
express it."

The women were leaving the table. She leaned towards him.

"Please do not be long," she whispered. "You must admit that I have been
an admirable dinner companion. I have talked to you all the time on your
own subject. You must come and talk to me presently about art."

Julian, with his hand on the back of his chair, watched the women pass
out of the soft halo of the electric lights into the gloomier shadows
of the high, vaulted room, Catherine a little slimmer than most of the
others, and with a strange grace of slow movement which must have come
to her from some Russian ancestor. Her last words lingered in his mind.
He was to talk to her about art! A fleeting vision of the youth in the
yellow oilskins mocked him. He remembered his morning's tramp and the
broken-down motor-car under the trees. The significance of these things
was beginning to take shape in his mind. He resumed his seat, a little
dazed.

C