The next morning, which was Sunday, I went to Mr. Watling's house in, Fillmore Street--a new residence at that time, being admired as the dernier cri in architecture. It had a mediaeval look, queer dormers in a steep roof of red tiles, leaded windows buried deep in walls of rough stone. Emerging from the recessed vestibule on a level with the street were the Watling twins, aglow with health, dressed in identical costumes of blue. They had made their bow to society that winter. “Why, here's Hugh!” said Frances. “Doesn't he look pleased with himself?” “He's come to take us to church,” said Janet. “Oh, he's much too important,” said Frances. “He's made a killing of some sort,--haven't you, Hugh?”... I rang the bell and stood watching them as they departed, reflecting that I was thirty-two years of age and unmarried. Mr. Watling, surrounded with newspapers and seated before his library fire, glanced up at me with a welcoming smile: how had I borne the legislative baptism of fire? Such, I knew, was its implication. “Everything went through according to schedule, eh? Well, I congratulate you, Hugh,” he said. “Oh, I didn't have much to do with it,” I answered, smiling back at him. “I kept out of sight.” “That's an art in itself.” “I had an opportunity, at close range, to study the methods of our lawmakers.” “They're not particularly edifying,” Mr. Watling replied. “But they seem, unfortunately, to be necessary.” Such had been my own thought. “Who is this man Krebs?” he inquired suddenly. “And why didn't Varney get hold of him and make him listen to reason?” “I'm afraid it wouldn't have been any use,” I replied. “He was in my class at Harvard. I knew him--slightly. He worked his way through, and had a pretty hard time of it. I imagine it affected his ideas.” “What is he, a Socialist?” “Something of the sort.” In Theodore Watling's vigorous, sanity-exhaling presence Krebs's act appeared fantastic, ridiculous. “He has queer notions about a new kind of democracy which he says is coming. I think he is the kind of man who would be willing to die for it.” “What, in these days!” Mr. Watling looked at me incredulously. “If that's so, we must keep an eye on him, a sincere fanatic is a good deal more dangerous than a reformer who wants something. There are such men,” he added, “but they are rare. How was the Governor, Trulease?” he asked suddenly. “Tractable?” “Behaved like a lamb, although he insisted upon going through with his little humbug,” I said. Mr. Watling laughed. “They always do,” he observed, “and waste a lot of valuable time. You'll find some light cigars in the corner, Hugh.”