To Perkins the whole thing had seemed so simple, so imminent—­a thing that needed only a little general good-will to bring it about.  And now....  Suppose his Bill had passed its Second Reading, suppose it had become Law, would this poor old England be by way of functioning decently—­after all?  Foundlings were sometimes naughty....

What was the matter with the whole human race?  He remembered again those words of Scragson’s that had had such a depressing effect on him at the Cambridge Union—­“Look here, you know!  It’s all a huge nasty mess, and we’re trying to swab it up with a pocket handkerchief.”  Well, he’d given up trying to do that....

Sec.2.

During dinner his eyes wandered furtively up and down the endless ornate table, and he felt he had been, in a sort of way, right in thinking these people were the handiest instrument to prise open the national conscience with.  The shining red faces of the men, the shining white necks and arms of the women, the fearless eyes, the general free-and-easiness and spaciousness, the look of late hours counteracted by fresh air and exercise and the best things to eat and drink—­what mightn’t be made of these people, if they’d only Submit?

Perkins looked behind them, at the solemn young footmen passing and repassing, noiselessly, in blue and white liveries. They had Submitted.  And it was just because they had been able to that they were no good.

“Damn!” said Perkins, under his breath.

Sec.3.

One of the big conifers from the park had been erected in the hall, and this, after dinner, was found to be all lighted up with electric bulbs and hung with packages in tissue paper.

The Duchess stood, a bright, feral figure, distributing these packages to the guests.  Perkins’ name was called out in due course and the package addressed to him was slipped into his hand.  He retired with it into a corner.  Inside the tissue-paper was a small morocco leather case.  Inside that was a set of diamond and sapphire sleeve-links—­large ones.

He stood looking at them, blinking a little.

He supposed he must put them on.  But something in him, some intractably tough bit of his old self, rose up protesting—­frantically.

If he couldn’t Use these people, at least they weren’t going to Use him!

“No, damn it!” he said under his breath, and, thrusting the case into his pocket, slipped away unobserved.

Sec.4.

He flung himself into a chair in his bedroom and puffed a blast of air from his lungs....  Yes, it had been a narrow escape.  He knew that if he had put those beastly blue and white things on he would have been a lost soul....

“You’ve got to pull yourself together, d’you hear?” he said to himself.  “You’ve got to do a lot of clear, steady, merciless thinking—­now, to-night.  You’ve got to persuade yourself somehow that, Foundlings or no Foundlings, this regeneration of mankind business may still be set going—­and by you.”