person in the world to deal with."

"Anything else?"

"He believes you," she continued, "to be harmless enough at a wholesome
period of our country's history. Just now, he told me yesterday, that
he considered it was within your power to bring something very much like
ruin upon the country."

Maraton was silent. He felt singularly indisposed for argument. Every
condition of life just then seemed too pleasant. They were walking in
the shade, and a soft west wind was rustling in the trees above their
heads.

"There are, after all," she said, "so many happy people in the world.
Is it worth while to drag down the pillars, to bring so much misery into
the world for the sake of a dream?"

"I am no dreamer," he insisted quietly. "It is possible to make
absolute laws for the future with the same precision as one can extract
examples from the history of the past."

"But human nature," she objected, "is always a shifting quality."

"Only in detail. The heart and lungs of it are the same in all ages."

They crossed the road and turned into St. James's Park. He paused for
a moment to look at the front of Buckingham Palace.

"A hateful sight to you, of course," she murmured.