Mendip, a pale man of forty-five, very bald, with a fine forehead, and on his clear-cut lips a smile that shows his teeth; between him and more is Helen Julian, a pretty dark-haired young woman, absorbed in thoughts of her own.  The voices are tuned to the pitch of heated discussion, as the curtain rises.

The Dean.  I disagree with you, Stephen; absolutely, entirely disagree.

More.  I can’t help it.

Mendip.  Remember a certain war, Stephen!  Were your chivalrous notions any good, then?  And, what was winked at in an obscure young Member is anathema for an Under Secretary of State.  You can’t afford——­

More.  To follow my conscience?  That’s new, Mendip.

Mendip.  Idealism can be out of place, my friend.

The Dean.  The Government is dealing here with a wild lawless race, on whom I must say I think sentiment is rather wasted.

More.  God made them, Dean.

Mendip.  I have my doubts.

The Dean.  They have proved themselves faithless.  We have the right to chastise.

More.  If I hit a little man in the eye, and he hits me back, have I the right to chastise him?

Sir John.  We didn’t begin this business.

More.  What!  With our missionaries and our trading?

The Dean.  It is news indeed that the work of civilization may be justifiably met by murder.  Have you forgotten Glaive and Morlinson?

Sir John.  Yes.  And that poor fellow Groome and his wife?

More.  They went into a wild country, against the feeling of the tribes, on their own business.  What has the nation to do with the mishaps of gamblers?

Sir John.  We can’t stand by and see our own flesh and blood ill-treated!

The Dean.  Does our rule bring blessing—­or does it not, Stephen?

More.  Sometimes; but with all my soul I deny the fantastic superstition that our rule can benefit a people like this, a nation of one race, as different from ourselves as dark from light—­in colour, religion, every mortal thing.  We can only pervert their natural instincts.

The Dean.  That to me is an unintelligible point of view.

Mendip.  Go into that philosophy of yours a little deeper, Stephen—­ it spells stagnation.  There are no fixed stars on this earth.  Nations can’t let each other alone.

More.  Big ones could let little ones alone.

Mendip.  If they could there’d be no big ones.  My dear fellow, we know little nations are your hobby, but surely office should have toned you down.

Sir John.  I’ve served my country fifty years, and I say she is not in the wrong.

More.  I hope to serve her fifty, Sir John, and I say she is.