“You will excuse me, Mr. Laughton,” said the minister. “I was visiting my native country only a year ago. Yes, in the highlands of Scotland I saw things that grieved me to the heart and that made my blood boil. Sir, I saw women carrying the manure from their byres in creels upon their backs and depositing it upon their little fields, while their men were lolling in the sun, smoking their pipes.” “Ah!” said Laughton, with an ironic smile. “You are speaking of the crofters and that lot.” “Yes, more’s the pity. But I also visited in Edinburgh, in Glasgow, in Dundee. I spent some weeks in London, sir—no, excuse me, not the East End only, I will take you also to the West End. I stood at the doors of your grand theatres and music halls. I saw there the painted women, poor unhappy creatures that they are! Beasts of burden? Would to God they were only beasts of burden, sir! Beasts, and lower than beasts, made to serve the lusts of English gentlemen!” The blue eyes of the Scot were aflame with indignation. “I warrant you, Paul, you saw nothing of that among your Indians of the North. Ah, sir,” turning again to Laughton, “the paganism of London is something for which all honest Englishmen ought to be concerned and for which all of us ought to blush. You will excuse me, Mrs. Pelham,” he continued, bowing courteously to his hostess. “I have studied this matter with some care, and as a man of the British Empire I am filled with anxiety for the future of our people.” “Oh, hang it, Fraser! You will always have that sort of thing. We are not so bad as the rest of the world.” “Sir, you are right, but should we not be something better?” said the minister earnestly. “But I have no wish to discuss this matter here.” “I ought to apologise, sir,” said Laughton. “I believe I am responsible for giving the conversation the turn it has taken. Mr. Gaspard was speaking of gentlemen among the northern savages, I believe.” “Yes,” said Paul, “and I stay by what I have said. They were Indians, pagan, savages, they had their faults, their vices, they were by no means perfect. I have met some fine men, some gentlemen, though I have seen little of the world I must confess, but no finer gentleman have I met than the old chief of the Chippewayans. He was a man of the finest courage and endurance; he took the most scrupulous care of his people: when they suffered he suffered, he ruled them with justice and consideration, he kept them free from the vices of white civilisation; he stuck by his word; he was clean right through to the bone; he was what I call a gentleman.” “Must have been one of the right sort,” said Laughton heartily. “He was that,” replied Paul, his eyes lighting up with a kindly look at the Englishman. “You would have been glad to know him.” “You got to know him well, eh?”