“You take that to heart, Jordan,” advised Medora. “Not that there isn’t greater work in the world than paper-making—we all know that.” “No, we don’t know anything of the sort,” answered Trood. “Don’t you talk nonsense, Medora, because I won’t hear it. Paper stands for civilisation, and the better the paper, the higher the civilisation. You’d soon see that if anything happened to spoil paper and raise the price of rag. If the quality of paper goes down, that’s a sure sign the quality of civilisation’s doing the same. By its paper you can judge a nation, and English paper, being the best in the world, helps to show we’re first in the world. And if a man like Kellock was to hide his light under a bushel, his conscience would very soon tell him about it.” Jordan smiled at Mr. Trood’s enthusiasm. “I love my work,” he said, “and should never give it up, unless it gave me up, Ernest, but for one reason—that I could do something better.” “That you never would, if they made you king of England,” replied the foreman. “You’d never be so good at anything else as you are at paper-making, because you’ve got the natural genius for the job. That’s your gift—and you may lecture or you may stand on your head, or do any other mortal thing, but you won’t do it as well as you do your work at the vat.” The doctor found not much amiss with Jordan. He heard all particulars, and made a searching examination of the patient’s fine frame. “Never saw a healthier, or more perfect man,” he declared. “You’re a long way above the average, and as healthy as a ten year old. Muscles hypertrophied a bit—you’d be muscle-bound in fact for any other work but your own; but your organs are as sound as a bell; there’s nothing whatever to show why you’ve broken down. It would be cruelty to animals to give you physic. What d’you drink and smoke?” “I drink water, doctor. I don’t smoke.” “Might have known it. Well, go away for a fortnight. Run up to Dartmoor, and walk ten miles a day, or twenty, if you like. Then you’ll be all right. This breakdown must have been mental, seeing it was nothing else. Have you got anything on your mind?” “Yes, I have.” “Get it off then, and you’ll be all right.” Kellock nodded. “Thank you very much. I shall soon see a way, I hope.” “Let a way come then; don’t worry to find it. Don’t worry about anything. Go up to Dartmoor—Dartmoor’s a very good doctor—though his fees get higher every year, they tell me. I seem to know your name, by the way. Where did I see it?” “Posted up perhaps, doctor. I’m going to give a lecture here next week.” “Ah—so it was. Socialism—eh? Is the lecture getting on your nerves?” “No, not at all. But I hope it’ll get on other people’s. I look forward to it.” “Well, get to Dartmoor, and if your stroke doesn’t come back when you return, see me again.”