“Kehew’s a wonderful man,” added Townley. “He turned up from some road-hotel just out of Chicago, and the next thing we knew he put through that Wabash deal.” “What a name,” sighed Wemyss--“Kehew! how it expresses the sharp, lean-faced Yankee of the day, who doses his dyspepsia with whiskey-cocktails, and bores you through with his dull, soulless eyes! ‘Brainy,’ the newspapers call them, I think.” “But they are making the country, and they make the government,” said Sewall. “It’s all very well to talk about the greatest good of the greatest number; but government is going to be run in the interest of the successful man, and not for general philanthropy.” “Ah!” said Lionel Derwent, sadly. “You have done a good deal, in your country. You have done away with rank, and chivalry and the feudal system, with established churches and bishops, priests and deacons--except, perhaps, the Pope of Rome. You are independent of authority and experience, and enforced respect--Aristotle’s ‘Ethics,’ and Plato’s ‘Republic,’ to say nothing of Montesquieu and de Tocqueville, have become ‘chestnuts,’ as your phrase is. ‘You have eschewed a titled aristocracy and abolished primogeniture; you elect all your officers, from judges up to President; your laws run in the name of the people, instead of in the name of a prince; your State knows no religion and your judges wear no wigs!’--and for King Log you bow to King Stork; your God Baal is money, and you have lost individual liberty into the bargain.” Mr. Sewall chuckled to himself a little, but said nothing, like an Augur with a sense of humor; the collective individual liberties of the land made power, and power was his. It was left to Mrs. Malgam to respond. “I am sure,” said she, “I think money is very nice; and those who don’t want it needn’t get it.” “Money,” said Wemyss, “gives us the very individual liberty Mr. Derwent wants.” “Money,” said Flossie Gower, “is certainly necessary to get married on; else married people would have to be together all the time.” “Oh,” said Marion Lenoir, “I think love in a cottage would be just charming. Do you know I saw such a lovely household last winter in Florida----” But here Mrs. Gower gave the signal; and the men were left to their own reflections. Derwent rose abruptly, took a cigar, and walked out the open window to the terrace above the river. Wemyss and Arthur followed; and the other four were left about the dining-table. Derwent was puffing his cigar violently, and did not speak to them; but after a minute or two he took the path leading down into the valley and disappeared in the wood. Wemyss and Arthur sat down in one corner of the terrace and lit their cigars comfortably. “Derwent,” said Mr. Wemyss, “is one of those fanatics who do more harm, from their position and education, than any leader of the proletariat. But all women rave about him; for women are all hero-worshippers.”