your brain, till all of a sudden you found that your pulses were beating fast, and your heart was trembling, and there was a sort of faint music in your blood and in your ears?  Ah, well, one knows!  Suffer yourself to think of these hours when he is with you sometimes.  Don’t make an ice maiden of yourself.  You’ve done good work.  I know all about you.  You could do more splendid work still if you could weave that little spell which you and I know of.”

“It is too late,” she sighed, “too late now, he has become used to me.  I am a machine—­nothing more, to him.  He does not even realise that I am a woman.”

“What do you expect?” Aaron asked harshly.  “Why should a man, with great things in his brain, waste a moment in thinking of women?”

Selingman’s under-lip shot out, a queer little way he had of showing his contempt.

“Little man,” he told Aaron, “you are a fanatic.  You do not understand.  It is a quarter past nine and I am hungry. . . .  Ah!”

Maraton came in just then.  He had the air of a man who has been through a crisis, but his eyes were bright as though with triumph.  Selingman stood up and filled a glass with wine.

“The first rivet has been driven home,” he cried.  “I see it.”

“It has indeed,” Maraton answered.  “For good or for evil, the railway strike is decided upon.  There is civil war waging now, I can tell you,” he added, as he sat down.  “Graveling was there with a message.  The whole of the Labour Party is against the strike.  The leaders of the men are hot for it, and the men themselves.  There wasn’t a single one of them who hesitated.  Ernshaw, who represents the Union, told me that there wasn’t one of them who wouldn’t get the sack if he dared to waver.  They know what the Government did in Lancashire and they know what they tried to do at Sheffield.  With the railway companies they’ll have even more influence.”

“Let us dine,” Selingman insisted, welcoming the approach of the waiters.  “You see me, a man of forty-five, robust, the picture of health.  How do I do it?  In this manner.  When I dine, all cares go to the winds.  When I dine, I forget the hard places, I let my brain free of its burden.  I talk nonsense I love best with a pretty woman.  To-night we will talk with Miss Julia.  You see, I have brought her more flowers.  She does not wear them, but they lie by her plate.”

“I have never worn an ornament in my life,” Julia told him, “and I don’t think that any one has ever given me flowers.”

Selingman groaned.

“Oh, what pitiful words!” he exclaimed.  “If there is one thing sadder in life than the slavery of the people, it is to find a woman who has forgotten her sex.  Almost you inspire me, young lady, with the desire to take you by the hand and offer you my escort into the gentler ways.  If I were sure of success, not even my fair friends on the other side of the Channel could keep me from your feet.  Maraton, look away from the walls.  There’s nothing beyond—­just a world full of fancies.  There’s some Sole Otero on your plate which is worth tasting, and there’s champagne in your glass.  What matter if there are troubles outside?  That’s good—­there is music.”