“Oh, when we realize that we’ve only got a little time left in which to tell what we think to be the truth, it doesn’t require a great deal of courage, Paret.  I didn’t begin to see this thing until a little while ago.  I was only a crude, hot-headed revolutionist.  God knows I’m crude enough still.  But I began to have a glimmering of what all these new fellows in the universities are driving at.”  He waved his hand towards the book-cases.  “Driving at collectively, I mean.  And there are attempts, worthy attempts, to coordinate and synthesize the sciences.  What I have been saying is not strictly original.  I took it on the stump, that’s all.  I didn’t expect it to have much effect in this campaign, but it was an opportunity to sow a few seeds, to start a sense of personal dissatisfaction in the minds of a few voters.  What is it Browning says?  It’s in Bishop Blougram, I believe.  ’When the fight begins within himself, a man’s worth something.’  It’s an intellectual fight, of course.”

His words were spoken quietly, but I realized suddenly that the mysterious force which had drawn me to him now, against my will, was an intellectual rather than apparently sentimental one, an intellectual force seeming to comprise within it all other human attractions.  And yet I felt a sudden contrition.

“See here, Krebs,” I said, “I didn’t come here to bother you about these matters, to tire you.  I mustn’t stay.  I’ll call in again to see how you are—­from time to time.”

“But you’re not tiring me,” he protested, stretching forth a thin, detaining hand.  “I don’t want to rot, I want to live and think as long as I can.  To tell you the truth, Paret, I’ve been wishing to talk to you—­I’m glad you came in.”

“You’ve been wishing to talk to me?” I said.

“Yes, but I didn’t expect you’d come in.  I hope you won’t mind my saying so, under the circumstances, but I’ve always rather liked you, admired you, even back in the Cambridge days.  After that I used to blame you for going out and taking what you wanted, and I had to live a good many years before I began to see that it’s better for a man to take what he wants than to take nothing at all.  I took what I wanted, every man worth his salt does.  There’s your great banker friend in New York whom I used to think was the arch-fiend.  He took what he wanted, and he took a good deal, but it happened to be good for him.  And by piling up his corporations, Ossa on Pelion, he is paving the way for a logical economic evolution.  How can a man in our time find out what he does want unless he takes something and gives it a trial?”

“Until he begins to feel that it disagrees with him,” I said.  “But then,” I added involuntarily, “then it may be too late to try something else, and he may not know what to try.”  This remark of mine might have surprised me had it not been for the feeling—­now grown definite—­that Krebs had something to give me, something to pass on to me, of all men.  Indeed, he had hinted as much, when he acknowledged a wish to talk to me.  “What seems so strange,” I said, as I looked at him lying back on his pillows, “is your faith that we shall be able to bring order out of all this chaos—­your belief in Democracy.”