“Your ideas about things—everything being for the best. There’s a great time coming—and the Trenchards are damned fools.” “But I never—” “Oh, yes, you did. You implied it. Nobody minded, of course, because the Trenchards know so well that they’re not. _They_ don’t bother what people think, bless them. Besides, you don’t understand them in the least—nor won’t ever, I expect.” “But,” said Philip, “I really never thought for a moment.” “Don’t be so afraid of hurting people’s feelings. I liked your confidence. I liked your optimism. I just came this afternoon to see whether a fortnight alone had damped it a little.” Philip hesitated. It would be very pleasant to say that no amount of personal trouble could alter his point of view; it would be very pleasant to say that the drearier his personal life was the surer he was of his Creed. He hesitated—then spoke the truth. “As a matter of fact, I’m afraid it _was_ dimmed for a bit. Russia seemed so far away and so did England, and I was hanging in mid-air, between. But now—everything’s all right again.” “Why now?... Because I’ve paid you a call?” Uncle Timothy laughed. Philip looked down at the little public-house. “I’m very glad you have. But this afternoon—it’s been the kind of day I’ve expected London to give me, it seemed to settle me suddenly with a jerk, as though it were pushing me into my place and saying, ‘There! now I’ve found a seat for you’.” He was talking, he knew, at random, but he was very conscious of Uncle Timothy, the more conscious, perhaps, because he could not see his face. Then he bent forward in his chair. “It was very jolly of you,” he said, “to come and see me—but tell me, frankly, why you did. We scarcely spoke to one another whilst I was at your sister’s house.” “I listened to you, though. Years ago I must have been rather like you. How old are you?” “Thirty.” “Well, when I was thirty I was an idealist. I was impatient of my family although I loved them. I thought the world was going to do great things in a year or two. I believed most devoutly in the Millennium. I grew older—I was hurt badly. I believed no longer, or thought I didn’t. I determined that the only thing in life was to hold oneself absolutely aloof. I have done that ever since.... I had forgotten all these years that I had ever been like you. And then when I heard once again the same things, the same beliefs ...” He broke off, lit his pipe, puffed furiously at it and watched the white clouds sail into the night air. “Whatever I have felt,” said Philip, slowly, “however I have changed, to-night I know that I am right. To-night I know that all I believed in my most confident hour is true.” The older man bent forward and put his hand on Philip’s arm.