Evans of South Wales--"

"Evans is one of the worst," Fenn interrupted, with some excitement.
"There's a man who has only worn a collar for the last few years of his
life, who evaded the board-school because he was a pitman's lad, who
doesn't even know the names of the countries of Europe, but who still
believes that he is a possible candidate. And Cross, too! Well, he
washes when he comes to London, but he sleeps in his clothes and they
look like it."

"He is very eloquent," Catherine observed.

"Eloquent!" Fenn exclaimed scornfully. "He may be, but who can
understand him? He speaks in broad Northumbrian. What is needed in the
leader whom they are to elect this week, Miss Abbeway, is a man of some
culture and some appearance. Remember that to him is to be confided the
greatest task ever given to man. A certain amount of personality he must
have--personality and dignity, I should say, to uphold the position."

"There is Mr. Miles Furley," she said thoughtfully. "He is an educated
man, is he not?"

"For that very reason unsuitable," Fenn explained eagerly. "He
represents no great body of toilers. He is, in reality, only an honorary
member of the Council, like yourself and the Bishop, there on account of
his outside services."

"I remember, only a few nights ago," she reflected, "I was staying at
a country house--Lord Maltenby's, by the bye--Mr. Orden's father. The
Prime Minister was there and another Cabinet Minister. They spoke of the
Labour Party and its leaderless state. They had no idea, of course,
of the great Council which was already secretly formed, but they were
unanimous about the necessity for a strong leader. Two people made
the same remark, almost with apprehension: `If ever Paul Fiske should
materialise, the problem would be solved!'"

Fenn assented without enthusiasm.

"After all, though," he reminded her, "a clever writer does not always
make a great speaker, nor has he always that personality and distinction
which is required in this case. He would come amongst us a stranger,
too--a stranger personally, that is to say."

"Not in the broadest sense of the word," Catherine objected. "Paul Fiske
is more than an ordinary literary man. His heart is in tune with what he
writes. Those are not merely eloquent words which he offers. There is
a note of something above and beyond just phrase-making--a note of
sympathetic understanding which amounts to genius."

Her companion stroked his moustache for a