Borrowdean, as though unconsciously, straightened himself.  If no colour came to his cheeks, the light of battle was at least in his eyes.  This man was speaking heresies.  The words sprang to his lips.

“Peace!” he exclaimed, scornfully.  “Peace is for the dead.  The last reward perhaps of a breaking heart.  The life effective, militant, is the only possible existence for men.  Pull yourself together, Mannering, for Heaven’s sake.  Yours is the faineant spirit of the decadent, masquerading in the garb of a sham primitivism.  Were you born into the world, do you think, to loiter through life an idle worshipper at the altar of beauty?  Who are you to dare to skulk in the quiet places, whilst the battle of life is fought by others?”

Another lark had risen almost from their feet, and, circling its way upwards, was breaking into song.  And below, the full spring tide was filling the pools and creeks with the softly flowing, glimmering sea-water.  The fishing boats, high and dry an hour ago, were passing now seaward along the silvery way.  All these things Mannering was watching with rapt eyes, even whilst he listened to his companion.

“Dear friend,” he said, “the world can get on very well without me, and I have no need of the world.  The battle that you speak of—­well, I have been in the fray, as you know.  The memory of it is still a nightmare to me.”

Borrowdean had the appearance of a man who sought to put a restraint upon his words.  He was silent for a moment, and then he spoke very deliberately.

“Mannering,” he said, “do not think me wholly unsympathetic.  There is a side of me which sympathises deeply with every word which you have said.  And there is another which forces me to remind you again, and again, that we men were never born to linger in the lotos lands of the world.  You do not stand for yourself alone.  You exist as a unit of humanity.  Think of your responsibilities.  You have found for yourself a beautiful corner of the world.  That is all very well for you, but how about the rest?  How about the millions who are chained to the cities that they may earn their living pittance, whose wives and children fill the churchyards, the echoes of whose weary, never-ceasing cry must reach you even here?  They are the people, the sufferers, fellow-links with you in the chain of humanity.  You may stand aloof as you will, but you can never cut yourself wholly away from the great family of your fellows.  You may hide from your responsibilities, but the burden of them will lie heavy upon your conscience, the poison will penetrate sometimes into your most jealously guarded paradise.  We are of the people’s party, you and I, Mannering, and I tell you that the tocsin has sounded.  We need you!”

A shadow had fallen upon Mannering’s face.  Borrowdean was in earnest, and his appeal was scarcely one to be treated lightly.  Nevertheless, Mannering showed no sign of faltering, though his tone was certainly graver.