‘He is not quite the man I had expected; more civilised. I should suppose he is the better kind of artisan. He talks with a good deal of the working-class accent, of course, but not like a wholly uneducated man.’ ‘His letter, you remember, was anything but illiterate. I feel I ought to ask him to come and see me before we leave.’ ‘The correspondence surely suffices.’ ‘You expressed my thanks?’ ‘Conscientiously.’ ‘I see you found the interview rather difficult, Hubert.’ ‘How could it be otherwise? The man is well enough, of his kind, but the kind is detestable.’ ‘Did he try to convert you to Socialism?’ asked his mother, smiling in her sad way. ‘I imagine he discerned the hopelessness of such an under taking. We had a little passage of arms,--quite within the bounds of civility. Shall I tell you how I felt in talking with him? I seemed to be holding a dialogue with the twentieth century, and you may think what that means.’ ‘Ah, it’s a long way off, Hubert.’ ‘I wish it were farther. The man was openly exultant; he stood for Demos grasping the sceptre. I am glad, mother, that you leave Wanley before the air is poisoned.’ ‘Mr. Mutimer does not see that side of the question?’ ‘Not he! Do you imagine the twentieth century will leave one green spot on the earth’s surface?’ ‘My dear, it will always be necessary to grow grass and corn.’ ‘By no means; depend upon it. Such things will be cultivated by chemical processes. There will not be one inch left to nature; the very oceans will somehow be tamed, the snow-mountains will be levelled. And with nature will perish art. What has a hungry Demos to do with the beautiful?’ Mrs. Eldon sighed gently. ‘I shall not see it.’ Her eyes dreamed upon the soft-swaying boughs of a young chestnut. Hubert was watching her face; its look and the meaning implied in her words touched him profoundly. ‘Mother!’ he said under his breath. ‘My dear?’ He drew nearer to her and just stroked with his fingers the silver lines which marked the hair on either side of her brows. He could see that she trembled and that her lips set themselves in hard self-conquest. ‘What do you wish me to do when we have left the Manor?’ His own voice was hurried between two quiverings of the throat; his mother’s only whispered in reply. ‘That is for your own consideration, Hubert.’ ‘With your counsel, mother.’ ‘My counsel?’ ‘I ask it I will follow it. I wish to be guided by you.’ He knelt by her, and his mother pressed his head against her bosom. Later, she asked-- ‘Did you call also on the Walthams?’ He shook his head. ‘Should you not do so, dear? ‘I think that must be later.’ The subject was not pursued.