It was the note of devotion to his cause that I had come to hear:  I felt it renewing me, as I had hoped.  The threat of disease, the louder clamourings of the leaders of the mob had not sufficed to dismay him—­though he admitted more concern over these.  My sympathy and affection were mingled with the admiration he never failed to inspire.

“But you, Hugh,” he said concernedly, “you’re not looking very well, my son.  You must manage to take a good rest before coming here—­before the campaign you’ll have to go through.  We can’t afford to have anything happen to you—­you’re too young.”

I wondered whether he had heard anything....  He spoke to me again about the work to be done, the work he looked to me to carry on.

“We’ll have to watch for our opportunity,” he said, “and when it comes we can handle this new movement not by crushing it, but by guiding it.  I’ve come to the conclusion that there is a true instinct in it, that there are certain things we have done which have been mistakes, and which we can’t do any more.  But as for this theory that all wisdom resides in the people, it’s buncombe.  What we have to do is to work out a practical programme.”

His confidence in me had not diminished.  It helped to restore confidence in myself.

The weather was cool and bracing for September, and as we drove in a motor through the beautiful avenues of the city he pointed out a house for me on one of the circles, one of those distinguished residences, instances of a nascent good taste, that are helping to redeem the polyglot aspect of our national capital.  Mr. Watling spoke—­rather tactfully, I thought—­of Maude and the children, and ventured the surmise that they would be returning in a few months.  I interpreted this, indeed, as in rather the nature of a kindly hint that such a procedure would be wise in view of the larger life now dawning for me, but I made no comment....  He even sympathized with Nancy Durrett.

“She did the right thing, Hugh,” he said, with the admirable casual manner he possessed of treating subjects which he knew to be delicate.  “Nancy’s a fine woman.  Poor devil!” This in reference to Ham....

Mr. Watling reassured me on the subject of his own trouble, maintaining that he had many years left if he took care.  He drove me to the station.  I travelled homeward somewhat lifted out of myself by this visit to him; with some feeling of spaciousness derived from Washington itself, with its dignified Presidential Mansion among the trees, its granite shaft drawing the eye upward, with its winged Capitol serene upon the hill.  Should we deliver these heirlooms to the mob?  Surely Democracy meant more than that!