without the sinews of movement, a country in which the working classes
laid down their tools, a country whose forges had flickered out and
whose railroad tracks were deserted, would simply be the helpless prey
of any country who cared to pay off old scores."

Lord Armley was looking curiously at the approaching couple.

"Never saw a man," he said, half to himself, "who looked the part so
little. Fellow must be well-bred, Foley."

Mr. Foley nodded.

"No one knows who his people were. It doesn't really matter, does it?
Accident has made him a gentleman--accident or fate. Perhaps that is
why he has gained such an ascendency over the people. The working
classes of the country are most of them sick of their own Labour
Members. The practical men can see no further than their noses, and the
theorists are too far above their heads. Maraton is the only one who
seems to understand. You must have a talk with him, Armley."

Lady Elisabeth, with a little smile, had turned towards the tennis
courts, and Maraton came on alone. Mr. Foley turned to his companion.

"Armley," he said, "this is Mr. Maraton--Lord Armley."

"It is a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Maraton," Lord Armley declared, as
the two men shook hands, "in such peaceful surroundings. The Press over
here has not been too kind to you. Our ideas of your personality are
rather based, I am afraid, upon the _Punch_ caricature. You've seen it,
perhaps?"