“Ah, yes,” Callan rhapsodised, “it has a great future in store, a great future.  The Duke is a true philanthropist.  He has taken infinite pains—­infinite pains.  He wished to build up a model state, the model protectorate of the world, a place where perfect equality shall obtain for all races, all creeds, and all colours.  You would scarcely believe how he has worked to ensure the happiness of the native races.  He founded the great society to protect the Esquimaux, the Society for the Regeneration of the Arctic Regions—­the S.R.A.R.—­as you called it, and now he is only waiting to accomplish his greatest project—­the Trans-Greenland railway.  When that is done, he will hand over the Systeme to his own people.  That is the act of a great man.”

“Ah, yes,” I said.

“Well,” Callan began again, but suddenly paused.  “By-the-bye, this must go no farther,” he said, anxiously, “I will let you have full particulars when the time is ripe.”

“My dear Callan,” I said, touchily, “I can hold my tongue.”

He went off at tangent.

“I don’t want you to take my word—­I haven’t seen it yet.  But I feel assured about it myself.  The most distinguished people have spoken to me in its favour.  The celebrated traveller, Aston, spoke of it with tears in his eyes.  He was the first governor-general, you know.  Of course I should not take any interest in it, if I were not satisfied as to that.  It is percisely because I feel that the thing is one of the finest monuments of a grand century that I am going to lend it the weight of my pen.”

“I quite understand,” I assured him; then, solicitously, “I hope they don’t expect you to do it for nothing.”

“Oh, dear, no,” Callan answered.

“Ah, well, I wish you luck,” I said.  “They couldn’t have got a better man to win over the National conscience.  I suppose it comes to that.”

Callan nodded.

“I fancy I have the ear of the public,” he said.  He seemed to get satisfaction from the thought.

The train entered Folkestone Harbour.  The smell of the sea and the easy send of the boat put a little heart into me, but my spirits were on the down grade.  Callan was a trying companion.  The sight of him stirred uneasy emotions, the sound of his voice jarred.

“Are you coming to the Grand?” he said, as we passed St. Denis.

“My God, no,” I answered, hotly, “I’m going across the river.”

“Ah,” he murmured, “the Quartier Latin.  I wish I could come with you.  But I’ve my reputation to think of.  You’d be surprised how people get to hear of my movements.  Besides, I’m a family man.”

I was agitatedly silent.  The train steamed into the glare of the electric lights, and, getting into a fiacre, I breathed again.  I seemed to be at the entrance of a new life, a better sort of paradise, during that drive across the night city.  In London one is always a passenger, in Paris one has reached a goal.  The crowds on the pavements, under the plane-trees, in the black shadows, in the white glare of the open spaces, are at leisure—­they go nowhere, seek nothing beyond.