As in his first speech, so in his campaign, he failed.  He had been chosen for his youth, his joyousness, his magnetism, his radiant promise of great things to come.  He went about the constituency an, anxious, haggard man, working himself to death without being able to awaken a spark of emotion in the heart of anybody.  He lost ground daily.  On the other hand, Silas Finn, with his enthusiasms, and his aspect of an inspired prophet, made alarming progress.  He swept the multitude.  Paul Savelli, the young man of the social moment, had an army of helpers, members of Parliament making speeches, friends on the Unionist press writing flamboyant leaders, fair ladies in automobiles hunting for voters through the slums of Hickney Heath.  Silas Finn had scarcely a personal friend.  But hope reigned among his official supporters, whereas depression began to descend over Paul’s brilliant host.

“They want stirring up a bit,” said the Conservative agent despondently.  “I hear old Finn’s meetings go with a bang.  They nearly raised the roof off last night.  We want some roof-raising on this side.”

“I do my best,” said Paul coldly, but the reproach cut deep.  He was a failure.  No nervous or intellectual effort could save him now, though he spent himself to the last heartbeat.  He was the sport of a mocking Will o’ the Wisp which he had taken for Destiny.

Once on coming out of his headquarters he met Silas, who was walking up the street with two or three of his committee-men.  In accordance with the ordinary amenities of English political life, the two candidates shook hands, and withdrew a pace or two aside to chat for a while.  This was the first time they had come together since the afternoon of revelation, and there was a moment of constraint during which Silas tugged at his streaked beard and looked with mournful wistfulness at his son.

“I wish I were not your opponent, Paul,” said he in a low voice, so as not to be overheard.

“That doesn’t matter a bit,” Paul replied courteously.  “I see you’re putting up an excellent fight.”

“It’s the Lord’s battle.  If it weren’t, do you think I would not let you win?”

The same old cry.  Through sheer repetition, Paul began almost to believe in it.  He felt very weary.  In his father’s eyes he recognized, with a pang, the glow of a faith which he had lost.  Their likeness struck him, and he saw himself, his old self, beneath the unquestioning though sorrowful eyes.

“That’s the advantage of a belief in the Almighty’s personal interest,” he answered, with a touch of irony:  “whatever happens, one is not easily disillusioned.”

“That is true, my son,” said Silas.

“Jane is well?” Paul asked, after an instant’s pause, breaking off the profitless discussion.

“Very well.”

“And Barney Bill?”

“He upbraids me bitterly for what I have said.”

Paul smiled at the curiously stilted phrase.