“No fresh trouble?”

“It was a general conversation, but his visit had its purpose—­a very definite and threatening purpose, too.  I do not blame France.  We are under great obligations to her already.  Half her fleet is there to watch over our possessions.  She naturally must be sure of her quid pro quo.  Everywhere, all over the Continent, the idea seems to be spreading that we are going to be plunged into what really amounts to a civil war.  The coming of Maraton has strengthened the people’s belief.  A country without the sinews of movement, a country in which the working classes laid down their tools, a country whose forges had flickered out and whose railroad tracks were deserted, would simply be the helpless prey of any country who cared to pay off old scores.”

Lord Armley was looking curiously at the approaching couple.

“Never saw a man,” he said, half to himself, “who looked the part so little.  Fellow must be well-bred, Foley.”

Mr. Foley nodded.

“No one knows who his people were.  It doesn’t really matter, does it?  Accident has made him a gentleman—­accident or fate.  Perhaps that is why he has gained such an ascendency over the people.  The working classes of the country are most of them sick of their own Labour Members.  The practical men can see no further than their noses, and the theorists are too far above their heads.  Maraton is the only one who seems to understand.  You must have a talk with him, Armley.”

Lady Elisabeth, with a little smile, had turned towards the tennis courts, and Maraton came on alone.  Mr. Foley turned to his companion.

“Armley,” he said, “this is Mr. Maraton—­Lord Armley.”

“It is a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Maraton,” Lord Armley declared, as the two men shook hands, “in such peaceful surroundings.  The Press over here has not been too kind to you.  Our ideas of your personality are rather based, I am afraid, upon the Punch caricature.  You’ve seen it, perhaps?”

Maraton’s eyes lit up with mirth.

“Excellent!” he observed.  “I have had one framed.”

“He is standing,” Lord Armley continued, turning to Mr. Foley, “on the topmost of three tubs, his hair flying in the wind, his mouth open to about twice its normal size, with fire and smoke coming out of it.  And below, a multitude!  It is a splendid caricature.  They tell me, Mr. Maraton, that it is your intention to kindle the fires in England, too.”

Maraton was suddenly grave.

“Lord Armley,” he said, “all the world speaks of me as an apostle of destruction and death.  It is because they see a very little distance.  In my own thoughts, if ever I do think of myself, it is as a builder, not as a destroyer, that I picture myself.  Only in this world, as in any other, one must destroy first to build upon a sound foundation.”

“Good reasoning, sir,” Lord Armley replied, “only one should be very sure, before one destroys, that the new order of things will be worthy of the sacrifice.”