eir humble destinies, the source of their happiness, and
the omnipotent guardian of their fortunes. He was the head of what is
deprecatingly called in these days a Servile State. We are warned that
democracy is advancing to sweep up all such anachronisms and cast them
into the fire. I am not so sure. None of us, who have seen the new
liberty stalking through the old lands like a pestilence, are altogether
sure. After all, there is something to be said for the theory of a
Golden Age....

"The guttural voice rolled on. The business of the day was nearly over,
and he spoke in general terms of the tendencies of the day. It was a
mistake, he thought, to assume that all men were equal. He had not found
it so. The Anglo-Saxon race had a genius for misgovernment on the
democratic principle. He was not convinced that this could be applied to
Southeastern Europe. Democracy was an illusion founded on a
misconception. The power must be in one hand. Otherwise, chaos. Observe
these works of supreme art about me--these exquisite examples of ancient
craftsmanship--the products of a simple monarchic age. A man might be a
slave, unlettered and unenfranchised, yet fashion works of imperishable
beauty. Of course, the exponents of democracy denied this, but he
himself was in a position to know. He had studied the past glories of
the Cyclades. And he had failed to observe any striking improvement in
human life when the fanatics of liberty assumed command. Liberty! It was
a phantom, a _Lorelei_, singing to foolish idle men, luring them to
destruction. All things, all men, are bound. This was a restless age. He
regarded the future with some misgiving. We lacked men of strong
character, animated by sound ideals, an aristocracy of intellect, with
financial control.... These, of course, were large questions....

"That is the memory I have of him, the reactionary whom the romantic
votaries of liberty set up against a wall and shot full of holes the
other day. I don't offer any opinion. I am only puzzled. I recall the
man as I saw him that afternoon, in the midst of his prosperity and his
life's work, the embodiment of a cultured despotism.

"But of the girl he could tell me nothing, and it was of the girl I
wished to hear. Gruenbaum would not have noticed her. His own
divagations, his emotional odyssies, his mistresses, would be dim
memories now, and he would not have noticed her. And as young Siddons
gradually developed an air of gentle and res