“The news, please, Mr. Fenn?” she asked, as soon as the man had withdrawn.

“News?” he repeated.  “Oh, let’s leave it alone for a time!  One gets sick of shop.”

She raised her eyebrows a little discouragingly.  She was dressed with extraordinary simplicity, but the difference in caste between the two supplied a problem for many curious observers.

“Why should we talk of trifles,” she demanded, “when we both have such a great interest in the most wonderful subject in the world?”

“What is the most wonderful subject in the world?” he asked impressively.

“Our cause, of course,” she answered firmly, “the cause of all the peoples—­Peace.”

“One labours the whole day long for that,” he grumbled.  “When the hour for rest comes, surely one may drop it for a time?”

“Do you feel like that?” she remarked indifferently.  “For myself, during these days I have but one thought.  There is nothing else in my life.  And you, with all those thousands and millions of your fellow creatures toiling, watching and waiting for a sign from you—­oh, I can’t imagine how your thoughts can ever wander from them for a moment, how you can ever remember that self even exists!  I should like to be trusted, Mr. Fenn, as you are trusted.”

“My work,” he said complacently, “has, I hope, justified that trust.”

“Naturally,” she assented, “and yet the greatest part of it is to come.  Tell me about Mr. Orden?”

“There is no change in the fellow’s attitude.  I don’t imagine there will be until the last moment.  He is just a pig-headed, insufferably conceited Englishman, full of class prejudices to his finger tips.”

“He is nevertheless a man,” she said thoughtfully.  “I heard only yesterday that he earned considerable distinction even in his brief soldiering.”

“No doubt,” Fenn remarked, without enthusiasm, “he has the bravery of an animal.  By the bye, the Bishop dropped in to see me this morning.”

“Really?” she asked.  “What did he want?”

“Just a personal call,” was the elaborately careless reply.  “He likes to look in for a chat, now and then.  He spoke about Orden, too.  I persuaded him that if we don’t succeed within the next twenty four hours, it will be his duty to see what he can do.”

“Oh, but that was too bad!” she declared.  “You know how he feels his position, poor man.  He will simply loathe having to tell Julian—­Mr. Orden, I mean that he is connected with—­”

“Well, with what, Miss Abbeway?”

“With anything in the nature of a conspiracy.  Of course, Mr. Orden wouldn’t understand.  How could he?  I think it was cruel to bring the Bishop into the matter at all.”

“Nothing,” Fenn pronounced, “is cruel that helps the cause.  What will you drink, Miss Abbeway?  You’ll have some champagne, won’t you?”

“What a horrible idea!” she exclaimed, smiling at him nevertheless.  “Fancy a great Labour leader suggesting such a thing!  No, I’ll have some light French wine, thank you.”