“It’s so bally obvious,” Susan replied. “You’ve been writing articles for the last six weeks--they’ve appeared all over the shop--rubbing it in about the English temper. It wouldn’t have mattered if it had been anybody else, but people believe _you_. All sorts of people. We know that, through the activities of the league, because we’re represented everywhere. Well, what has been the effect of those articles? One side, the side in power, has believed you and decided on your authority not to give way. The other side, the workers, has believed you, too, and they’re so annoyed to think that you are right that they’ve determined to prove you’re wrong.” “But, in that case, I was right,” Wolverton put in with his first sign of excitement. “You were, until you put your opinion on record,” Susan corrected him. “You see,” she explained, “it’s like knowing the future. You can only know it for certain about other people as long as you keep it to yourself. If you tell a man that next Friday he’ll walk under a ladder in Fleet Street, and that a brick will drop on his head and kill him, he’ll keep out of Fleet Street next Friday, if he believes you.” “I admit the instance,” Wolverton murmured. “Well, it’s just the same in your case. The workers have been saying, ‘Here’s that chap Wolverton convincing everybody that there’ll be no revolution, that we’ll have to give in, in the end, and make terms. And all the politicians, and the owners and the middle classes believe him, and they’ll stick it out to the last minute, because they’re sure we have got the “English temper” and won’t fight. Well, we’ll jolly well prove that Mr. Wolverton is wrong for once.’ You see,” Susan concluded with a graceful gesture. “Our league knows these things. And it comes to this: if you want your prophecies to come off, you must keep them to yourself until after the event. Hasn’t your study of history taught you that much?” Henry Wolverton leaned forward in his chair and covered his face with his hands. “I’m sorry if I’ve upset you,” Susan said gently. “I’m sure you’re a very nice man, really.” Wolverton groaned. “I’m finally discredited,” he muttered. “Oh, no!” Susan comforted him. “Not in your own line. Remember the motto of our League: ‘These things are hidden from the wise and prudent and revealed unto babes.’ No man, however clever he is, can be expected to know everything.” Henry Wolverton lifted his head. “I shall never write again,” he said, in the tone of one who makes the great renunciation; and he looked at Susan a trifle nervously, as if he feared this immense announcement might be a little too much for her. “Just as well,” she replied soothingly. “In any case we’ve pretty well scrapped history now. It was never any practical use except as a reference for precedents; and now we’re chucking precedents down the sink as fast as we can. We’re all going to begin again presently--when the fighting is over--on a new basis.”