But they will not be believed by men of ambition, pushing resolutely for power and wealth. So Frederick Norman knew precisely what he was facing when Galloway's tall gaunt figure and face of the bird of prey appeared before him. Galloway had triumphed and was triumphing not through obedience to the Sunday sermons and the silly novels, poems, plays, and the nonsense chattered by the obscure multitudes whom the mighty few exploit, but through obedience to the conditions imposed by our social system. If he raised wages a little, it was in order that he might have excuse for raising prices a great deal. If he gave away millions, it was for his fame, and usually to quiet the scandal over some particularly wicked wholesale robbery. No, Galloway was not a witness to the might of altruistic virtue as a means to triumph. Charity and all the other forms of chicanery by which the many are defrauded and fooled by the few--those "virtues" he understood and practiced. But justice--humanity's ages-long dream that at last seems to glitter as a hope in the horizon of the future--justice--not legal justice, nor moral justice, but human justice--that idea would have seemed to him ridiculous, Utopian, something for the women and the children and the socialists. Norman understood Galloway, and Galloway understood Norman. Galloway, with an old man's garrulity and a confirmed moral poseur's eagerness about appearances, began to unfold his virtuous reasons for the impending break with Burroughs--the industrial and financial war out of which he expected to come doubly rich and all but supreme. Midway he stopped. "You are not listening," said he sharply to the young man. Their eyes met. Norman's eyes were twinkling. "No," said he, "I am waiting." There was the suggestion of an answering gleam of sardonic humor in Galloway's cold gray eyes. "Waiting for what?" "For you to finish with me as father confessor, to begin with me as lawyer. Pray don't hurry. My time is yours." This with a fine air of utmost suavity and respect. In fact, while Galloway was doddering on and on with his fake moralities, Norman was thinking of his own affairs, was wondering at his indifference about Dorothy. The night before--the few hours before--when he had dealt with her so calmly, he, even as he talked and listened and acted, had assumed that the enormous amount of liquor he had been consuming was in some way responsible. He had said to himself, "When I am over this, when I have had sleep and return to the normal, I shall again be the foolish slave of all these months." But here he was, sober, having taken only enough whisky to prevent an abrupt let-down--here he was viewing her in the same tranquil light. No longer all his life; no longer even dominant; only a part of life--and he was by no means certain that she was an important part.