He moved nearer to Leacraft who did not budge, but inspired with an increasing vigor of disgust, and eager to summarily remonstrate at the seeming cruelty of the parade about him, its grotesque wickedness, said: “I do not wish to take advantage of the accidental relations which have thus unexpectedly thrown us together. But surely it is known among men, and known bitterly among Englishmen that the shadows of an awful twilight are falling about them, and the Nation’s Day is closing. At such a crisis can it be possible for men and women, calling themselves English, in whom the memory of English fame and English glory, is still a present pride, can it be possible that at this moment they still consort for amusement, for display, for the fugitive follies of mutual admiration? This aristocracy is the head and forefront of the nation, and it should now be bowed in penitence, in supplication, in the agony of self inquiry, and it stupifies me to find them gay, when the heart of England is breaking with grief.” A curious metamorphosis worked in the lineaments of the gentleman he was addressing. The hard lines relaxed, and a wistful smile, that drew its occult meaning from the man’s interior sadness, stole softly over his face. He put out his hand, which Leacraft accepted, and he returned Leacraft’s pressure. There was an instant’s silence, and then the stranger spoke, still holding Leacraft’s hand, and retaining his undeviating inspection of Leacraft’s face, as if he would force upon himself the recognition of a friend.