island with a rich life for all." Tommy declared that he would
become a Doukhobor to please her, but she said something about
the inability of Ethiopians to change their skin. The third time
she hinted vaguely that there was "another." The star of Abinger
Vennard was now blazing in the firmament, and she had conceived a
platonic admiration for him. The truth is that Miss Claudia,
with all her cleverness, was very young and--dare I say it?
--rather silly.

Caerlaverock was stroking his beard, his legs astraddle on the
hearthrug, with something appallingly viceregal in his air, when
Mr. and Mrs. Alexander Cargill were announced. The Home
Secretary was a joy to behold. He had the face of an elderly and
pious bookmaker, and a voice in which lurked the indescribable
Scotch quality of "unction." When he was talking you had only to
shut your eyes to imagine yourself in some lowland kirk on a hot
Sabbath morning. He had been a distinguished advocate before he
left the law for politics, and had swayed juries of his
countrymen at his will. The man was extraordinarily efficient on
a platform. There were unplumbed depths of emotion in his eye, a
juicy sentiment in his voice, an overpowering tenderness in his
manner, which gave to politics the glamour of a revival meeting.
He wallowed in obvious pathos, and his hearers, often
unwillingly, wallowed with him. I have never listened to any
orator at once so offensive and so horribly effective. There was
no appeal too base for him, and none too august: by some subtle
alchemy he blended the arts of the prophet and the fishwife. He
had discovered a new kind of language. Instead of "the hungry
millions," or "the toilers," or any of the numerous synonyms for
our masters, he invented the phrase, "Goad's people." "I shall