High up on the seventh floor of one of London’s newest and loftiest buildings, a young man sat writing in a somewhat barely furnished office. He wrote deliberately, and with the air of one who thoroughly enjoyed his occupation. The place had a bookish aspect—the table was strewn with magazines and books of reference; piles of literature of a varied order stood, in the absence of bookshelves, against the wall. The young man himself, however, was the most interesting object in the room. He was big and dark and rugged. There was strength in his square-set shoulders, in the compression of his lips, even in the way his finger guided the pen across the paper. He was thoroughly absorbed in his task. Nevertheless he raised his head at a somewhat unusual sound. The lift had swung up to his floor, he heard the metal gate thrown open. There was a knock at the door, and Macheson walked in.

“Victor, by glory!”

Down went the pen, and Richard Holderness stood up at his desk with outstretched hands. Macheson grasped them heartily and seated himself on the edge of the table.

“It’s good to see you, Dick,” he declared, “like coming back to the primitive forces of nature, unchanged, unchanging. The sight of you’s enough to stop a revolution.”

“You’re feeling like that, are you?” his friend answered, his eyes fixed upon Macheson’s face. “Yes, I see you are. Go ahead! Or will you smoke first?”

Macheson produced his pipe, and his host a great tin of honeydew. Macheson helped himself slowly. He seemed to be trying to gain time.

“Blessed compact, ours,” the giant remarked, leaning back in his chair. “No probing for confidences, no silly questions. Out with it!”

“I’ve started wrong,” Macheson said. “I’ll have to go back on my tracks a bit anyway.”

Holderness grunted affably.

“Nothing like mistakes,” he remarked. “Best discipline in the world.”

“I started on a theory,” Macheson continued thoughtfully. “It didn’t pan out. The people I have been trying to get at are better left alone.”

“Exactly why?” Holderness asked.

“I’ll tell you,” Macheson answered. “You know I’ve seen a bit of what we call village life. Their standard isn’t high enough, of course. Things come too easily, their noses are too close to the ground. They are moderately sober, moderately industrious, but the sameness of life is at work all the time. It makes machines of the factory hands, animals of the country folk. I knew that before I started. I thought I could lift their heads a little. It’s too big a task for me, Dick.”

“Of course,” Holderness assented. “You can’t graft on to dead wood.”

“They live decent lives—most of them,” Macheson continued thoughtfully. “They can’t understand that any change is needed, no more can their landlords, or their clergy. A mechanical performance of the Christian code seems all that any one expects from them. Dick, it’s all they’re capable of. You can’t alter laws. You can’t create intelligence. You can’t teach these people spirituality.”

“As well try to teach ’em to fly,” Holderness answered. “I could have told you so before, if it had been of any use. What about these Welshmen, though?”

“It’s hysteria,” Macheson declared. “If you can get through the hide, you can make the emotions run riot, stir them into a frenzy. It’s a debauch. I’ve been there to see. The true spiritual life is partly intellectual.”

“What are you going to do now?” Holderness asked.

“I don’t know,” Macheson answered. “I haven’t finished yet. Dick, curse all women!”

The giant looked thoughtful.

“I’m sorry,” he said simply.

Macheson swung himself from the table. He walked up and down the room.

“It isn’t serious,” he declared. “It isn’t even definite. But it’s like a perfume, or a wonderful chord of music, or the call of the sea to an inland-bred viking! It’s under my heel, Dick, but I can’t crush it. I came away from Leicestershire because I was afraid.”

“Does she—exist?” Holderness asked.

“Not for me,” Macheson declared hurriedly. “Don’t think that. I shouldn’t have mentioned it, but for our compact.”

Holderness nodded.

“Bad luck,” he said. “This craving for something we haven’t got—can’t have—I wish I could find the germ. The world should go free of it for a generation. We’d build empires, we’d reconstruct society. It’s a deadly germ, though, Victor, and it’s the princes of the world who suffer most. There’s only one antidote—work!”

“Give me some,” Macheson begged.

The giant looked at him thoughtfully.

“Right,” he answered, “but not to-day. Clothes up in town?”

Macheson nodded.

“We’ll go on the bust,” Holderness declared. “I’ve been dying for a spree! We’ll have it. Where are you staying?”

“My old rooms,” Macheson answered. “I looked in on my way from the station and found them empty.”

“Capital! We’re close together. Come on! We’ll do the West End like two gay young bucks. Five o’clock, isn’t it? We’ll walk up Regent Street and have an ‘apÉritif’ at Biflore’s. Wait till I brush my hat.”

Macheson made no difficulties, but he was puzzled. Holderness he knew well enough had no leanings towards the things which he proposed with so much enthusiasm. Was it a pilgrimage they were to start upon—or what? After all, why need he worry? He was content to go his friend’s way.

So they walked up Regent Street, bright with the late afternoon sunshine, threading their way through the throngs of sauntering men and women gazing into the shops—and at one another! At Biflore’s Macheson would have felt out of his element but for Holderness’ self-possession. He had the air of going through what might have been an everyday performance, ordered vermouth mixed, lit a cigarette, leaned back at his ease upon the cushioned seat, and told with zest and point a humorous story. There were women there, a dozen or more, some alone, some in little groups, women smartly enough dressed, good-looking, too, and prosperous, with gold purses and Paris hats, yet—lacking something. Macheson did not ask himself what it was. He felt it; he knew, too, that Holderness meant him to feel it. The shadow of tragedy was there—the world’s tragedy....

They went back to their rooms to dress and met at a popular restaurant—one of the smartest. Here Macheson began to recover his spirits. The music was soft yet inspiring, the women—there were none alone here—were well dressed, and pleasant to look at, the sound of their laughter and the gay murmur of conversation was like a delightful undernote. The dinner and wine were good. Holderness seemed to know very well how to choose both. Macheson began to feel the depression of a few hours ago slipping away from him. Once or twice he laughed softly to himself. Holderness looked at him questioningly.

“You should have been with me for the last fortnight, Dick,” he remarked, smiling. “The lady of the manor at Thorpe didn’t approve of me, and I had to sleep for two nights in a gamekeeper’s shelter.”

“Didn’t approve of you to such an extent?” Holderness remarked. “Was she one of those old country frumps—all starch and prejudice?”

Then for a moment the heel was lifted, and a rush of memory kept him dumb. He felt the tearing of the blood in his veins, the burning of his cheeks, the wild, delicious sense of an exaltation, indefinable, mysterious. He was tongue-tied, suddenly apprehensive of himself and his surroundings. He felt somehow nearer to her—it was her atmosphere, this. Was he weaker than his friend—had he, indeed, more to fear? He raised his glass mechanically to his lips, and the soft fire of the amber wine soothed whilst it disquieted him. Again he wondered at his friend’s whim in choosing this manner of spending their evening.

“No!” he said at last, and he was surprised to find his voice composed and natural, “the mistress of Thorpe is not in the least that sort. Thorpe is almost a model village, and of course there is the church, and a very decent fellow for vicar. I am not at all sure that she was not right. I must have seemed a fearful interloper.”

Holderness stretched his long limbs under the table and laughed softly.

“Well,” he declared, “it was a hare-brained scheme. Theoretically, I believe you were right. There’s nothing more dangerous than content. Sort of armour you can’t get through.... Come, we mustn’t miss the ballet.”

They threaded their way down the room. Suddenly Macheson stopped short. He was passing a table set back in a recess, and occupied by two persons. The girl, who wore a hat and veil, and whose simple country clothes were conspicuous, was staring at him with something like fear in her eyes. Her cheeks were flushed; her lips parted, she was leaning forward as though to call her companion’s attention to Macheson’s approach. Macheson glanced towards him with a sudden impulse of indignant apprehension. It was Stephen Hurd, in irreproachable evening clothes save only for his black tie, and his companion was Letty.

Macheson stopped before the table. He scarcely knew what to say or how to say it, but he was determined not to be intimidated by Hurd’s curt nod.

“So you are up in town, Letty,” he said gravely. “Is your mother with you?”

The girl giggled hysterically.

“Oh, no!” she declared. “Mother can’t bear travelling. A lot of us came up this morning at six o’clock on a day excursion, six shillings each.”

“And what time does the train go back?” Macheson asked quickly.

“At twelve o’clock,” the girl answered, “or as soon afterwards as they can get it off. It was terribly full coming up.”

Macheson was to some extent relieved. At any rate there was nothing further that he could do. He bent over the girl kindly.

“I hope you have had a nice day,” he said, “and won’t be too tired when you get home. These excursions are rather hard work. Remember me to your mother.”

He exchanged a civil word with the girl’s companion, who was taciturn almost to insolence. Then he passed on and joined Holderness, who was waiting near the door.

“An oddly assorted couple, your friends,” he remarked, as they struggled into their coats.

Macheson nodded.

“The girl was my landlady’s daughter at Thorpe, and the young man’s the son of the agent there,” he said.

“Engaged?” Holderness asked.

“I’m—afraid not,” Macheson answered. “She’s up on an excursion—for the day—goes back at twelve.”

“I suppose he’s a decent fellow—the agent’s son?” Holderness remarked. “She seems such a child.”

“I suppose he is,” Macheson repeated. “I don’t care for him very much, Dick; I suppose I’m an evil-minded person, but I hate leaving them.”

Holderness looked back into the restaurant.

“You can’t interfere,” he said. “It’s probably a harmless frolic enough. Come on!”