light of a telephone
exchange--for the exchange of ideas, Miss Datchet," he said; and taking
pleasure in his image, he continued it. "We should consider ourselves
the center of an enormous system of wires, connecting us up with every
district of the country. We must have our fingers upon the pulse of the
community; we want to know what people all over England are thinking; we
want to put them in the way of thinking rightly." The system, of course,
was only roughly sketched so far--jotted down, in fact, during the
Christmas holidays.

"When you ought to have been taking a rest, Mr. Clacton," said Mary
dutifully, but her tone was flat and tired.

"We learn to do without holidays, Miss Datchet," said Mr. Clacton, with
a spark of satisfaction in his eye.

He wished particularly to have her opinion of the lemon-colored leaflet.
According to his plan, it was to be distributed in immense quantities
immediately, in order to stimulate and generate, "to generate and
stimulate," he repeated, "right thoughts in the country before the
meeting of Parliament."

"We have to take the enemy by surprise," he said. "They don't let the
grass grow under their feet. Have you seen Bingham's address to his
constituents? That's a hint of the sort of thing we've got to meet, Miss
Datchet."

He handed her a great bundle of newspaper cuttings, and, begging her to
give him her views upon the yellow leaflet before lunch-time, he turned
with alacrity to his different sheets of paper and his different bottles
of ink.

Mary shut the door, laid the documents upon her table, and sank her
head on her hands. Her brain was curiously empty of any thought. She
listened, as if, perhaps, by listening she would become merged again
in the atmosphere of the office. From the next room came the rapid
spasmodic sounds of Mrs. Seal's erratic typewriting; she, doubtless, was
already hard at work helping the people of England, as Mr. Clacton
put it, to think rightly; "generating and stimulating," those were his
words. She was striking a blow against the enemy, no doubt, who didn't
let the grass grow beneath their feet. Mr. Clacton's words repeated
themselves accurately in her brain. She pushed the papers wearily over
to the farther side of the table. It was no use, though; something or
other had happened to her brain--a change of focus so that near things
were indistinct again. The same thing had happened to her once before,
she remembered, after she had met Ralp