Mr. Breakspeare betrayed a little uneasiness.

“I regret,” he said diffidently, “that I have had very little time to give to natural science.  When we have floored Robb, I fully intend to apply myself to a study of all that kind of thing.”

Lashmar bestowed a gracious smile upon him.

“My dear sir, the flooring of Robb—­Robb in his symbolic sense—­ can only he brought about by assiduous study and assimilation of what I will call bio-sociology.  Not only must we, the leaders, have thoroughly grasped this science, but we must find a way of teaching it to the least intelligent of our fellow citizens.  The task is no trifling one.  I’m very much afraid that neither you nor I will live to see it completed.”

“Pray don’t discourage us,” put in Constance.  “Comprehensive theories are all very well, but Mr. Breakspeare’s practical energy is quite as good a thing.”

The editor turned his eyes upon Miss Bride, their expression a respectful gratitude.  He was a married man, with abundant offspring.  Mrs. Breakspeare rose every morning at half-past six, and toiled at her domestic duties, year in year out, till ten o’clock at night; she was patient as laborious, and had never repined under her lot.  But her education was elementary; she knew nothing of political theories, nothing of science or literature, and, as he looked at Constance Bride, Breakspeare asked himself what he might not have done, what ambition he might not have achieved, had it been his fate to wed such a woman as that!  Miss Bride was his ideal.  He came to Rivenoak less often than he wished, because the sight of her perturbed his soul and darkened him with discontent.

“Discourage you!” cried Lashmar.  “Heaven forbid!  I’m quite sure Mr. Breakspeare wouldn’t take my words in that sense.  I am all for zeal and hopefulness.  The curse of our age is pessimism, a result and a cause of the materialistic spirit.  Science, which really involves an infinite hope, has been misinterpreted by Socialists in the most foolish way, until we get a miserable languid fatalism, leading to decadence and despair.  The essential of progress is Faith, and Faith can only be established by the study of Nature.”

“That’s the kind of thing I like to hear,” exclaimed the editor, who, whilst listening, has tossed off a glass of wine. (The pink of his cheeks was deepening to a pleasant rosiness, as luncheon drew to its end.) “Hoc signo vinces!”

Lady Ogram, who was regarding Lashmar, said abruptly, “Go on!  Talk away!” And the orator, to whose memory happily occurred a passage of his French sociologist, proceeded meditatively.