“A more dangerous person even than you,” Mr. Foley observed, “and an Anglophobe.  Never mind, what did we call about, Elisabeth?”

“Well, we were really on our way to the city,” his niece reminded him.  “It was you who suggested, when we were at the top of the Square, that we should call in and see Mr. Maraton.”

“There was something in my mind,” Mr. Foley persisted.  “I remember.  Next Friday is the last day of the session, you know, Mr. Maraton.  We want you to go down to Scotland with us for a week.”

Maraton shook his head.

“It is very kind of you,” he said, “but I shall take no holiday.  I need none.  I have endless work here during the vacation.  There are some industries I have scarcely looked into at all.  And there is my Bill, and the draft of another one to follow.  Thank you very much, Mr. Foley, all the same.”

Elisabeth set down the illustrated paper which she had picked up.  She looked across at Maraton.

“Don’t you think for one week, Mr. Maraton,” she suggested softly, “that you could bring your work with you.  You could have a study in a quiet corner of the house, and if you did not care to bring a secretary, I would promise you the services of an amateur one.”

Perhaps by accident, as she spoke, she glanced across at Julia, and perhaps by accident Julia at that moment happened to glance up.  Their eyes met.  Julia, from the grim loneliness of her own world, looked steadfastly at this exquisite type of the things in life which she hated.

“You are very kind,” Maraton repeated, “but indeed I must not think of it.  It seems to me,” he went on, after a slight hesitation, “that every time lately when I have stood at the halting of two ways, and have had to make up my mind which to follow, I have been forced by circumstances to choose the easier way.  This time, at least, my duty is quite plain.  I have work to do in London which I cannot neglect.”

Elisabeth picked up the paper which she had set down the moment before.  Her eyes had been quick to appreciate the smothered fierceness of Julia’s gaze.  At Maraton she did not glance.

“Well, I am sorry,” Mr. Foley said.  “You are a young man now, Maraton, but one works the better for a change.  I didn’t come to talk shop, but you’ve set a nice hornet’s nest about our heads up in Sheffield.”

“There are many more to follow,” Maraton assured him.

Mr. Foley chuckled.  His sense of humour was indomitable.

“If there is one thing in the Press this morning,” he declared, “more pronounced than the diatribes upon your speech, it is the number of compliments paid to me for my perspicuity in extending the hand of friendship to the most dangerous political factor at present existent,—­vide the Oracle.  I’ve wasted many hours arguing with some of my colleagues.  If I had known what was coming, I might just as well have sat tight and waited for to-day.  I am vindicated, whitewashed.  Only the Opposition are furious.  They are trying to claim you as a natural member of the Radical Party.  Shouldn’t be surprised if they didn’t approach you to-day sometime.”