It was the Tuesday luncheon-hour. The diningroom of the political club was thronged with hungry councillors from Spring Gardens, and politicians to whom the weekly meetings of the Council were a matter of concern. The air buzzed with eager talk. There was a continual going to and fro between the tables—greetings, handshakes, hurried conversations between lunchers and passers-by. Elation over an important measure successfully carried through was the prevailing tone, encouraging grandiose imaginings. London was to have its hanging-gardens, like Babylon of old, and the streams that water the New Jerusalem would take a lesson in limpidness from the Thames.

Goddard sat at a table with three others, who were thus forecasting the municipal millennium. He listened with a smile. Had he not just pricked the visionaries with kindly satire in his review article on Extremism?

“And all ad majorent L. C. C. gloriam,” said he. “That way madness lies.”

There was an impatient laugh.

“You are a reactionary.”

“I am a practical man,” said Goddard. “I don’t like confusing means with ends. Matthew Arnold was right in calling faith in machinery our besetting sin. We have beatified too many of our institutions already, and made them too much puffed up with conceit for work-a-day purposes. We are always in danger of drifting into the idea that the work exists for the glorification of the instrument.”

“But what about our ideals?” cried one. “They are as necessary for the life of the party of progress, as the reverence for decayed antiquity is for that of the Tories. Man is a dreaming animal, and his dreams inspire his actions.”

“Hence this crazy society,” said Goddard, with a laugh. “I understand now. But man has reason to direct his inspirations. Have your ideals by all means, but see they are true ones—that they can be attained without the sacrifice of minor commonplace reforms. Best to build up your ideal as you go along.”

“Synthetic socialism—a good title,” murmured another, a journalist in the labour interest.

“Ezekiel has done it all before you, with his line upon line, precept upon precept,’” remarked Goddard. “They did know something down in Judee. But you’ve begged the question as to the glorification of the County Council. You want to make London flow with milk and honey. Is that your real end? Or is it to pose as a composite middle-class Jehovah? I think the latter. No. I believe in progress. I have given up my life to the cause of it, and I will fight for it till the last breath in my body. But I will look upon myself and any institution to which I belong as the merest tool in the hands of social evolution.” Here the discussion was interrupted by the waiter, whose temporary ideal was the perfection of his guidance of Goddard in the matter of sweets.

“I will have another helping of beef,” said Goddard. “I am hungry.”

“That accounts for your paradoxical humour,” said the journalist. “I have often noticed it.” Goddard nodded and leant back in his chair. Just then he caught sight of Aloysius Gleam, the pink of neatness, with an orchid in the buttonhole of his frock-coat, scanning the room through his eye-glass. When his glance met Goddard he came forward with the expression of a man who has found the object of his search. Pending the arrival of the beef, Goddard rose and advanced to meet him.

“I thought I should find you,” said Gleam. “I want to talk to you seriously.”

“So do I,” said Goddard. “You’re the very man I was longing for. Perhaps it’s about the same matter.”

“Perhaps,” said Gleam, with a twinkle of amusement. “You broach it.”

“The rumour about Ecclesby.”

“What rumour?” asked Gleam, becoming grave.

“The strike. There is a big storm brewing for the near future, I’m afraid. Haven’t you heard?”

“Not a suggestion,” returned Gleam.

“I had a report from Willaston—he is the League secretary there—forecasting probable events. Nothing is definite. I thought perhaps you might have heard.”

Gleam shook his head.

“What is wrong? New machinery, and Trades Union and Employers’ Federation at loggerheads about it?”

“No. Not machinery. Worse than that. Sweating, out-work. Simple tyranny. Here is the letter.”

“I don’t think much of it. It will blow over,” said Gleam, having looked through the letter. “Wait a bit though,” he added, with a quick glance. “Ecclesby is in the Hough division, isn’t it?”

“Of course,” said Goddard. “That’s why Willaston wrote to me in particular.”

“I’ll keep a look-out,” said Gleam. “Cleaver and Flyte are the leading firm there. Oddly enough, I am connected with them in a roundabout way in the City, through Rosenthal, you know. And then there are Flood & Sons in London.”

“What an encyclopaedia you are!” said Goddard.

Aloysius Gleam laughed, and curled his moustache.

“That reminds me of my mission,” he said.

“Why haven’t you called upon Lady Phayre?” Goddard disregarded the apparent non sequitur, and replied with an air of surprise—

“What have I to do in ladies’ drawing-rooms?”

“Sit, drink tea, and talk political gossip,” said Gleam.

“I wasn’t brought up to it,” replied Goddard.

“I have never done it, and therefore it is not to be done. Sound doctrine for a Progressist. Well, Lady Phayre is a little indignant.”

“Why? For not taking advantage of a piece of empty politeness?”

“Lady Phayre’s politeness is never empty when it is directed towards a member of the party. Her name is not unknown to you?” Goddard admitted that the fame of Lady Phayre had reached him.

“Well, then,” said Gleam, “I advise you, as your oldest political friend, to go and see her. She’s a charming woman, attached heart and soul to the party, and can give you help in the most unexpected ways. There never was a successful politician yet who despised the assistance of women.”

“Many have got into rare messes through women,” said Goddard.

“More have got out of them by their aid,” retorted Gleam convincedly.

“But she would be rather astonished if I turned up, wouldn’t she?” said Goddard.

Gleam broke into a laugh. There were unlooked for simplicities in Goddard.

“I tell you, my dear man,” he said, “that, as Lady Shepherdess of the party, Lady Phayre expects you to go and pay her your homage. Hang it, man! she paid you the compliment of journeying all the way to Stepney to hear you speak.”

Goddard’s face assumed an air of perplexity, oddly at variance with its usual stern, resolute expression. Then the obstinacy in his nature asserted itself.

“No. It’s very kind of Lady Phayre, and I feel flattered. But I’ll stick to my own ways. Call me bear, or Goth, or what you like—I have no relish for false positions. You know who I am and all about me, so I don’t mind talking frankly to you.”

The blood rose to his face as he said this, and he held up his head somewhat defiantly. He had barely as yet divested himself of the uncomfortable impression of masquerading in his well fitting clothes, and of incongruity in refined table adjuncts. If these occasioned a worrying feeling of unfamiliarity, the sense of a wrong element in a lady’s drawing-room was still more galling. Gleam was keen enough to perceive these workings of false pride, and he bore Goddard no malice.

“Very well, then,” he said with a smile. “Perhaps you are right in your pig-headed way. I mustn’t keep you from your lunch. Good-bye. I’ll bear Ecclesby in mind.”

He shook hands, waved a salute to one of the men at Goddard’s table, and after exchanging a few words with a party near the door, went away. Goddard returned to his beef, which was getting cold, and, after the meal, retired with his three companions to the smoking-room, where an argument arose that banished Lady Phayre from his mind.

He could have resisted Aloysius Gleam’s persuasion to the crack of doom; but when the stars in their courses began to take up the matter, he was as helpless as Sisera. If he had marched straight out of the club, he possibly might never have spoken to Lady Phayre again. But the stars turned his steps aside to the Central News tape-machine in the strangers’ waiting-room, and there he found himself suddenly face to face with her sitting—a dainty vision—in an arm-chair near the entrance.

Her face brightened as she saw him, and she made a slight forward movement in expectation of his advance. Goddard could do no less than acknowledge these manifestations of friendliness.

“Have you seen Mr. Gleam in the club? They are keeping me such a time waiting.”

“I am afraid he’s gone,” said Goddard, an announcement which the page-boy came up that moment to confirm.

“What a nuisance,” said Lady Phayre. “I want a couple of ladies’ tickets all in a hurry for the House. I have a country girl staying with me, and have only this evening free.”

She looked at Goddard with a little air of concern. Now when Lady Phayre looked at a man like that, she simply rested all her responsibilities upon his shoulders. They became the man’s own personal affairs. Goddard was a man like any other. He reflected instinctively.

“I dare say I could get some men in the club to ballot for you—if you don’t mind waiting a little longer.”

“Would you really try?” she said, her eyes beaming gratitude and apparent astonishment.

“With pleasure,” said Goddard.

During his absence she turned over the advertisement pages of a railway time-table, and devised in her mind various club improvements that might conduce to the comfort of lady strangers. When he came back she rose, saw from the look of pleasure on his face that he had been successful.

“I have seen Jervons, the member for Twickenham. He undertakes to get half-a-dozen men to ballot for you; so if they are successful the orders will be round at your house before five o’clock. Will that do?”

“Beautifully,” said Lady Phayre: “a thousand thanks.”

“I’m afraid it won’t be very interesting,” said Goddard—“the Army Estimates will be on.”

“Oh, that doesn’t matter,” said Lady Phayre cheerfully: “the child will be pleased, whatever it is. I shall take a novel.”

He did not reply, but looked down at her from his superior height, one hand grasping his hat and stick, the other on his hip. There was a tiny pause. So Lady Phayre looked up at him and smiled. There was just the faintest gleam of mockery in her eyes, a transient consciousness of the feminine magic that had made the huge, powerful man do her bidding with the lightness of an Ariel. She put out a delicately gloved hand from her sealskin muff.

“I was saving up a quarrel with you, Mr. Goddard,” she said, “for not having been to see me. Surely you could have spared just one half-hour.”

There was so much frankness and charm in her tone and in her attitude, as she stood with half-extended hand, and head slightly inclined to one side, that Goddard reddened with a sense of boorishness.

“I am hardly a society man, Lady Phayre,” he said lamely, his pride not allowing him to formulate the more conventional apology.

She laughed. She had known men positively intrigue for the right of entrance at her door, and here was one refusing the privilege. He was a curiosity. Her self-pride was pricked.

“You mean my frivolity frightens you,” she said. “But I am not as frivolous as I look, I assure you. I can talk even earnestly at times.”

“Oh, it isn’t you,” he began.

“Then it is my friends. Well, some of them are as unbutterfly-like as bats. But if you don’t like a crowd, avoid an ‘at home’ day, and come any afternoon.”

“Do you honestly care whether I come or not?” asked Goddard bluntly.

“Well, considering that I have gone out of my way to ask you twice,” she replied, rather staggered, “you might have taken my sincerity for granted.”

She raised her chin a little, and put back her hand into her muff. Goddard realised that he had been rude. The desirable aspects of Lady Phayre’s friendship also began to dawn upon him.

“Forgive me, Lady Phayre,” he said, after an awkward pause. “You see what a bear I am.”

The admission brought out again smile and hand.

“Can I come and see you?” he added whimsically.

“Do you honestly want to?” she asked, echoing his tone.

“I should very much like to, indeed,” said Goddard.

That evening, Lady Phayre sent down her card, from behind the grating, to Aloysius Gleam. He came up after a while.

“I didn’t know you were here,” he said.

“Who do you think got me the tickets?”

“I haven’t the vaguest idea.”

“Mr. Goddard,” said Lady Phayre.

“Miss Mabel,” said Gleam, turning to the country girl, who was listening to a technical statement by the War Secretary with rapt attention, “Lady Phayre is like Providence: her ways are inscrutable.”