whistling to the headsman. He was of a line which counted in English
history, which among its women had a Lady Jane Grey. His mother, with the
mother's wistful love and pride, had traced that line for him. He was not
deeply moved, unless by the romance and the tragedy that gathered about
it.

But the aristocrat abode in the democrat, nature's doing. He was of the
people in being whole-souled for them; he was not by them. Verily, he had
been through the winters in their interest. The ripe harvest was in his
hair, which had become thin above a face, rugged with intellect; over a
broad, decisive brow, strewn with furrows. It was a head of uncommon
shape, with bumps and a poise, indicating at once the idealist and the
man of action. There it spoke truly, for Sir George was both; the two
were one in him.

The chief secret of his personality seemed to rest in his eyes, and it
was in them you met the dreamer of dreams. 'So I was often called,' he
would mention, 'and the answer is to hand. Many of the dreams which I
dreamt have been realised; that knowledge has been permitted me. Whether
it is any comfort I'm not sure, because, after all, my dreams are not
nearly exhausted.

'Dreaming dreams! I trust that Englishmen will never cease to do that,
for otherwise we should be falling away from ourselves. To dream is to
have faith, and faith is strength, whether in the individual or in the
nation. Sentiment! Yes, only sentiment must remain, probably, the
greatest of human forces governing the world.'

The store, reflected in Sir George's eyes, was what gave him his control
over men. In those depths, blue as a summer sky, were many lights, which