Maraton spent three hours and a half that morning in conclave with the
committee appointed for his reception, and for that three hours and a
half he was profoundly bored. Every one had a good deal to say except
Richard Graveling, who sat at the end of the table with folded arms and
a scowl upon his face. The only other man who scarcely opened his lips
during the entire time, was Maraton himself. Peter Dale, Labour Member
for Newcastle, was the first to make a direct appeal. He was a
stalwart, grim-looking man, with heavy grey eyebrows and grey beard. He
had been a Member of Parliament for some years and was looked upon as
the practical leader of his party.

"We've heard a lot of you, Mr. Maraton," he declared, "of your fine
fighting methods and of your gift of speech. We'll hear more of that, I
hope, at Manchester. We are, so to speak, strangers as yet, but there's
one thing I will say for you, and that is that you're a good listener.
You've heard all that we've got to say and you've scarcely made a
remark. You won't object to my saying that we're expecting something
from you in the way of initiative, not to say leadership?"

Maraton glanced down the table. There were five men seated there, and,
a little apart from all of them, David Ross, who had refused to be
shaken off. Excepting him only, they were well-fed and substantial
looking men. Maraton had studied them carefully through half-closed
eyes during all the time of their meeting, and the more he had studied
them, the more disappointed he had become. There was not one of them
with the eyes of a dreamer. There was not one of them who appeared
capable of dealing with any subject save from his own absolutely
material and practical point of view.