"A profound thinker," Selingman declared, "a mighty thinker, a giant, a pioneer. I tell you that he sees, Maraton. He has pitched his tent upon the hill-top. What do you know of him?" "Chiefly," Maraton replied, "that he is an aristocrat, a diplomatist, and the future ambassador here of a country I do not love." Selingman drained a glass of champagne before he answered. He lit another of his long, thin cigars and smoked furiously. "Aristocrat--yes," he assented, "but you do not know Maxendorf. He will be a joy to you, man. Oh, he sees! The day of the millions is coming, and he knows it. On the Continent our middle class isn't like yours. The conflict will never be so terrible. Thank God, our Labour stands already with its feet upon the ground. With us, development is all that is necessary. But you--you are up against a cul-de-sac, a black mountain of prejudice and custom. Nothing can save you but an earthquake or a revolution, and you know it. You came to England with those ideas, Maraton. You have turned opportunist. It was the only thing left for you. You didn't happen to see the one way out. To-morrow it will be a new day with you. To-morrow we will show you." They were rushing into London now. Selingman rose to his feet. "At seven o'clock to-morrow I shall fetch you," he announced, "that is, if I do not come in the morning. I may come before--I may give you the whole day for your own. I make no promise. Your address--write it down. I have no memory." Maraton wrote it and passed it over. Selingman thrust it into his pocket. "I go to work," he cried. "Some part of the genius of your voice shall tremble to-morrow in the genius of my prose. I promise you that. 'Listen,' our friend Maxendorf would say, 'to the vainest man in Europe!' But I know. No man knows himself save himself. Adieu!" CHAPTER XXVII The lengthy reports of his Sheffield visit and speeches, of which the newspapers made great capital, an extraordinary impression of the same in Selingman's wonderful prose, and the caprice of a halfpenny paper, made Maraton suddenly the most talked about man in England. A notoriety which he would have done much to have avoided was forced upon him. Early on the morning following his return, his house was besieged with a little stream of journalists, photographers, politicians, men and women of all orders and degrees, seeking for a few moments' interview with the man of the hour. Maraton retreated precipitately into his smaller study at the back of the house, and left Aaron to cope as well as he might with the assailing host. Every now and then the telephone bell rang, and Aaron made his report. "There are fourteen men here who want to interview you," he announced, "all from good papers. If you won't be interviewed, some of them want a photograph." "Send them away," Maraton directed. "Tell them the only photograph I ever had taken is in the hands of the Chicago police." "There's the editor here himself from the _Bi-Weekly_."