evelation to me.
Every one was unusually careless and outspoken, and it was amazing how
manifestly they echoed the feeling of this old Tory spokesman. They were
quite friendly to me, they regarded me and the BLUE WEEKLY as valuable
party assets for Toryism, but it was clear they attached no more
importance to what were my realities than they did to the remarkable
therapeutic claims of Mrs. Eddy. They were flushed and amused, perhaps
they went a little too far in their resolves to draw me, but they left
the impression on my mind of men irrevocably set upon narrow and cynical
views of political life. For them the political struggle was a game,
whose counters were human hate and human credulity; their real aim was
just every one's aim, the preservation of the class and way of living to
which their lives were attuned. They did not know how tired I was, how
exhausted mentally and morally, nor how cruel their convergent attack
on me chanced to be. But my temper gave way, I became tart and fierce,
perhaps my replies were a trifle absurd, and Tarvrille, with that quick
eye and sympathy of his, came to the rescue. Then for a time I sat
silent and drank port wine while the others talked. The disorder of
the room, the still dripping ceiling, the noise, the displaced ties and
crumpled shirts of my companions, jarred on my tormented nerves....

It was long past midnight when we dispersed. I remember Tarvrille coming
with me into the hall, and then suggesting we should go upstairs to see
the damage. A manservant carried up two flickering candles for us.
One end of the room was gutted, curtains, hangings, several chairs and
tables were completely burnt, the panelling was scorched and warped,
three smashed windows made the candles flare and gutter, and some scraps
of broken china still lay on the puddled floor.

As we surveyed this, Lady Tarvrille appeared, back from some party,
a slender, white-cloaked, satin-footed figure with amazed blue eyes
beneath her golden hair. I remember how stupidly we laughed at her
surprise.

2

I parted from Panmure at the corner of Aldington Street, and went my way
alone. But I did not go home, I turned westward and walked for a long
way, and then struck northward aimlessly. I was too miserable to go to
my house.

I wandered about that night like a man who has discovered his Gods
are dead. I can look back now detached yet sympathetic upon that wild
confusion of moods and impulses, and by it I