“Over there?” Maraton repeated.

“Belgium, Germany,” Selingman continued, “Germany chiefly.  Our Socialism has done better for us than that.  It has kindled a little fire in the heart of the men, and from its warmth has sprung something of that self-respect which will be the seed of the new humanity.  I want you over there, Maraton.  I want to show you.  Your heart will warm with joy.  God, what food for hell are your manufacturers here!  How they’ll burn!”

“The curse of England is its terrible middle class,” Maraton said slowly.  “The present generation is the first even to dimly realise it.  Our aristocracy is no better nor any worse than the aristocracy of other nations; rather better, perhaps, than worse.  But our middle class rules the land.  They represent the voting power.  They conceal their real sentiments under the name of Liberalism, they keep their heel upon the neck of Labour.  I tell you, when the revolution comes, it will be Hampstead and Kensington the mob will sack and burn, not Park Lane and Grosvenor Square.”

“You’re right,” Selingman agreed; “of course you’re right.  You and I make no mistakes.  We are of the order of those whose eyes were touched in the cradle.  Maraton, sometimes I am sorry I’m an artist, sometimes I loathe this sense of beauty which drives my pen into the pleasanter ways.  There’s only one thing in the world for you and me to work for.  The world to-day doesn’t deserve the offerings of the artist until it has purged itself.  I waste my time writing plays, but then, after all, I am not English.  If those were my people, Maraton, I doubt whether my pen could ever have wandered even for a moment into the pleasant ways.”

Maraton sighed.

“There is America, too,” he groaned.

“A conglomeration,” Selingman declared hastily, “not to be reckoned with yet as a nation.  What is born amongst the older peoples must find its way there by natural law.  It is not a country for commencements.  England—­it is England where the harvest is ripe.  What are you doing, man?”

Maraton looked thoughtfully out of the window.  The train was gathering speed; they were travelling now at a great pace.  Outside, the twilight was fading.  A black cloud had passed across the rising moon.  The electric light illuminated the carriage.  It was almost as though they were passing through a tunnel.

“You ask me almost the saddest question one could ask,” he replied gently.  “I am working for posterity.  There is no other course.  I called those people together to-night at Sheffield for the sake of half a crown a week extra wages.  It will make life a little easier for them, and I suppose every atom of prosperity must count in the sum of their future and their children’s future.”