“Spent in beer, most likely,” Selingman muttered.  “Why not?” Maraton exclaimed.  “The possession of money to spend in luxuries of any sort must add something, at least, to their dignity.  It means a lightening of the heart for a moment, an impulse of gladness.  Why should we judge?  Beer is only a prototype of other things.  Then, Selingman, mark this.  I brought the men of Lancashire out on strike some few weeks ago, and Sheffield now is following suit.  It is a matter of a few shillings a week only, it is true, but I am very careful to tell them always that it is simply a compromise which I am advocating.  These small increases are nothing.  The operatives have a nature-given right to a share in the product of their labour.  In these days their slave hire is thrown at them by an interloping person who calls himself an employer.  In the days to come it will be different.”

“You beat time, then!” Selingman cried.  “You head the waves!  My friend Maraton, they are right, those who turned me out of my villa at Versailles and sent me over to you.  They were right, indeed!  I have business with you, man—­an inspiration to share.  Ours is a great meeting.  You know Maxendorf?”

“By name,” Maraton admitted, a little startled.

“A profound thinker,” Selingman declared, “a mighty thinker, a giant, a pioneer.  I tell you that he sees, Maraton.  He has pitched his tent upon the hill-top.  What do you know of him?”

“Chiefly,” Maraton replied, “that he is an aristocrat, a diplomatist, and the future ambassador here of a country I do not love.”

Selingman drained a glass of champagne before he answered.  He lit another of his long, thin cigars and smoked furiously.

“Aristocrat—­yes,” he assented, “but you do not know Maxendorf.  He will be a joy to you, man.  Oh, he sees!  The day of the millions is coming, and he knows it.  On the Continent our middle class isn’t like yours.  The conflict will never be so terrible.  Thank God, our Labour stands already with its feet upon the ground.  With us, development is all that is necessary.  But you—­you are up against a cul-de-sac, a black mountain of prejudice and custom.  Nothing can save you but an earthquake or a revolution, and you know it.  You came to England with those ideas, Maraton.  You have turned opportunist.  It was the only thing left for you.  You didn’t happen to see the one way out.  To-morrow it will be a new day with you.  To-morrow we will show you.”

They were rushing into London now.  Selingman rose to his feet.

“At seven o’clock to-morrow I shall fetch you,” he announced, “that is, if I do not come in the morning.  I may come before—­I may give you the whole day for your own.  I make no promise.  Your address—­write it down.  I have no memory.”

Maraton wrote it and passed it over.  Selingman thrust it into his pocket.

“I go to work,” he cried.  “Some part of the genius of your voice shall tremble to-morrow in the genius of my prose.  I promise you that.  ‘Listen,’ our friend Maxendorf would say, ’to the vainest man in Europe!’ But I know.  No man knows himself save himself.  Adieu!”