Thus the care of the soul and bodies of the Hydriots was divided between the two, and they seemed to work in concert, although George showed no symptom of change of opinions, never saying anything openly to discredit his brother’s principles, nay, viewing them as wholesome restraints for those who were not too scientific to accept them, and even going to church when he had nothing else to do, but by preference looking up his patients on a Sunday.  He viewed everything, from religion to vice, as the outcome of certain states of brain, nerves, and health; and so far from being influenced by the example of Prometesky, regarded him as a proof of his own theory, and talked of the Slavonic temperament returning to its normal forms as the vigour of life departed.

Nevertheless, he did not seem to do harm to the workpeople.  Drunkenness was at least somewhat restrained, though far from conquered, and the general spirit of the people was wonderful, compared with those of other factories.  Plans were under discussion for a mission chapel, and the people themselves were thoroughly anxious for it.

Lord Erymanth returning, kindly came to call on me in my new house, and as I was out of the drawing-room at the time, he had ten minutes’ conversation with the gentleman whom he found reading at the window, and was so much pleased with him that when making the tour of our small domain, he said, “You did not introduce me, Lucy.  Is that an Australian acquaintance of Harold Alison’s?  I did not expect such high cultivation.”

“An Australian acquaintance, yes,” said I, “and also a Polish count.”

“Prometesky!”

“Prometesky,” said I, to whom the name had begun to sound historical.  “I did not know you did not recognise him.”

I was afraid my old friend would be angry with me, but he stood still and said, “I never saw him except at his trial.  I can understand now the fascination he was said to have possessed.  I could not conscientiously assist your nephew in his recall, but I highly honour the generous perseverance with which he has effected it; and I am happy to acknowledge that the subject is worthy of his enthusiasm.  Animosity may be laid aside now, and you may tell Mr. Harold Alison that I heartily congratulate him.”

“And he—­Count Stanislas we call him—­sees now that he was mistaken,” I said.

“Does he?  That is the best of the higher stamp of men, my dear.  They know when they are wrong, and own it.  In fact, that’s the greatest difference between men.  The feeble and self-opinionated never acknowledge an error, but the truly sincere can confess and retrieve their hallucinations and prejudices.  Well, I am glad to have seen Prometesky, and to be disabused of aome ideas respecting him.”

Count Stanislas, on the other hand, received me with, “So that is Erymanth!  The tyrant, against whom we raged, proves a charitable, benevolent, prosy old gentleman.  How many illusions a few decades dispel, and how much hatred one wastes!”