et us speak of this paper. I want, if possible, to
understand Westlake's position. Have you ever read the thing?'

'Frequently.'

'Now here is an article signed by Westlake. You know his books? How has
he fallen to this? His very style has abandoned him, his English smacks
of the street corners, of Radical clubs. The man is ruined; it is next.
to impossible that he should ever again do good work, such as we used to
have from him. The man who wrote "Daphne"! Oh, it is monstrous!'

'It is something of a problem to me,' Mr. Wyvern admitted. 'Had he been
a younger man, or if his writing had been of a different kind. Yet his
sincerity is beyond doubt.'

'I doubt it,' Hubert broke in. 'Not his sincerity in the beginning; but
he must long since have ached to free himself. It is such a common thing
for a man to commit himself to some pronounced position in public life
and for very shame shrink from withdrawing. He would not realise what
it meant. Now in the revolutionary societies of the Continent there is
something that appeals to the imagination. A Nihilist, with Siberia or
death before him, fighting against a damnable tyranny--the best might
sacrifice everything for that. But English Socialism! It is infused with
the spirit of shopkeeping; it appeals to the vulgarest minds; it keeps
one eye on personal safety, the other on the capitalist's strong-box;
it is stamped commonplace, like everything originating with the English
lower classes. How does it differ from Radicalism, the most contemptible
claptrap of politics, except in wanting to hurry a little the rule of
the mob? Well, I am too subjective. Help me, if you can, to understand
Westlake.'

Hubert was pale and sorrow-stricken; his movements were heavy with
weariness, but he had all at once begun to speak with the old fire,
the old scorn. He rested his chin upon his hand and waited for his
companion's reply.

'At your age,' said Mr. Wyvern, smiling half sadly, 'I, too, had a habit
of vehement speaking, but it was on the other side. I was a badly
paid curate working in a wretched parish. I lived among the vilest
and poorest of the people, and my imagination was constantly at
boiling-point. I can only suppose that Westlake has been led to look
below the surface of society and has been affected as I was then. He has
the mind of a poet; probably he was struck with horror to find over what
a pit he had been living in careless enjoyment. He is tender-hearted;
of a sudden