“Ha, ha, friend Breakspeare, here’s something for thee!  Thou art the Sophist of our time, and list how the old wise man spoke of thy kind.  ’They do but teach the collective opinion of the many; ’tis their wisdom, forsooth.  I might liken them to a man who should study the temper or the desires of a great strong beast, which he has to keep and feed; he learns how to approach and handle the creature, also at what times and from what cause it is dangerous, or the reverse; what is the meaning of its several cries, and by what sounds it may be soothed or infuriated.  Furthermore, when, by constantly living with the huge brute, he has become perfect in all this, he calls it philosophy, and makes a system or art of it, which forthwith he professes.  One thing he names honourable, another base; this good, that evil; this just, that unjust; all in accordance with the tastes and words of the great animal, which he has studied from its grunts and snarls.’—­Ha, ha, friend Breakspeare!  Does it touch thee?  ’Comes it not something near?’—­Nay, nay, take it not in dudgeon!  ’Tis old Plato who speaks.”

“What, I?” cried the journalist, gaily.  “I’m infinitely obliged to you.  The passage shall do me yeoman’s service—­turned against the enemy.  For it is not I who speak for the many at Hollingford, as well you know.  We Liberals are the select, the chosen spirits.  The mighty brute is Toryism.”

Only the fear of reaching Rivenoak at too late an hour constrained Lashmar to rise at length and take his leave.

“I hope you will let me come and see you again, Mr. Blaydes,” he exclaimed heartily, as he grasped the old man’s hand.

“Here you will commonly find me, Mr. Lashmar, after eight o’clock, and if you bear with my whimsies I shall thank you for your company.  This ale, I try to believe, will last my time.  If a company corrupt it, I forswear all fermented liquor, and go to the grave on mere element—­’honest water which ne’er left man in the mire.’  But I hope better things—­I hops better things.”

“And what do you think of Martin?” asked the journalist, as he and Lashmar walked to the nearest place where a vehicle could be obtained for the drive to Rivenoak.

“A fine old cynic!” answered Dyce.  “I hope often to drink ale with him.”

“Luckily, it doesn’t compromise you.  Martin belongs to no party, and gives no vote.  I could tell you a good story about his reception of a canvasser—­a lady, by Jove!—­at the last election; but I’ll keep it till we meet again, as you are in a hurry.  You have put me in spirits, Mr. Lashmar; may it not be long before I next talk with you.  Meanwhile, I dig the trenches!”

Ale and strong tobacco, to both of which he was unaccustomed, wrought confusingly upon Dyce’s brain as he was borne through the night.  He found himself murmuring the name of Constance, and forming a resolve to win her to intimacy on the morrow.  Yes, he liked Constance. after all.  Then came a memory of Martin Blaydes’s diatribe, and he laughed approvingly.  But Constance was an exception, the best type of modern woman.  After all, he liked her.