t awfully interesting person he was always, indeed, discovering
the most awfully interesting persons. In his grave and toneless voice,
brushing his hair from off his brow, he descanted upon Ferrand with
enthusiasm, to which was joined a kind of shocked amusement, as who
should say, "Of course, I know it's very odd, but really he 's such an
awfully interesting person." For John Noble was a politician, belonging
to one of those two Peculiar parties, which, thoroughly in earnest, of
an honesty above suspicion, and always very busy, are constitutionally
averse to anything peculiar for fear of finding they have overstepped
the limit of what is practical in politics. As such he inspired
confidence, not caring for things unless he saw some immediate benefit
to be had from them, having a perfect sense of decency, and a small
imagination. He discussed all sorts of things with Ferrand; on one
occasion Shelton overheard them arguing on anarchism.

"No Englishman approves of murder," Noble was saying, in the gloomy
voice that contrasted with the optimistic cast of his fine head, "but
the main principle is right. Equalisation of property is bound to come.
I sympathise with then, not with their methods."

"Forgive me," struck in Ferrand; "do you know any anarchists?"

"No," returned Noble; "I certainly do not."

"You say you sympathise with them, but the first time it comes to
action--"

"Well?"

"Oh, monsieur! one doesn't make anarchism with the head."

Shelton perceived that he had meant to add, "but with the heart, the
lungs, the liver." He drew a deeper meaning from the saying, and seemed
to see, curling with the smoke from Ferrand's lips, the words: "What do
you, an English gentleman, of excellent position, and all the prejudices
of your class, know about us outcasts? If you want to understand us you
must be an outcast too; we are not playing at the game."

This talk took place upon the lawn, at the end of one of Toddles's
French lessons, and Shelton left John Noble maintaining to the youthful
foreigner, with stubborn logic, that he, John Noble, and the anarchists
had much, in common. He was returning to the house, when someone called
his name from underneath the holm oak. There, sitting Turkish fashion on
the grass, a pipe between his teeth, he found a man who had arrived the
night before, and impressed him by his friendly taciturnity. His
name was Whyddon, and he had just returned from Central Africa; a
brown-faced, l