“I think he made a great mistake,” remarked George, laconically. For an instant there was complete silence. The company was evidently making sure that it had understood his speech correctly. Then Miss Newbury gave a gasp, and Henry Lawford, with a certain stern dignity that he knew how to assume, said---- “A mistake? How so, pray?” “In doing what he did--sacrificing his life to save the child.” “Why, Mr. Gorham!” exclaimed the hostess, while everybody turned toward him. He was a young man between thirty and thirty-five, a lawyer beginning to be well thought of in his profession, with a thoughtful, pleasant expression and a vigorous physique. “It seems to me,” he continued, slowly, seeking his words, “if John Baker had stopped to think, he would have acted differently. To be sure, he saved the life of an innocent child; but, on the other hand, he robbed of their sole means of support seven other no less innocent children and their mother. He was a brave man, I agree; but I, for one, should have admired him more if he had stopped to think.” “And let the child be killed?” exclaimed Mr. Carter, the gentleman who had deplored so earnestly the decay of ideal considerations. He was a young mill-treasurer, with aristocratic tendencies, and a strong interest in church affairs. “Yes, if need be. It was in danger through no fault of his. Its natural guardians had neglected it.” “What a frightful view to take!” murmured Mrs. Green; and, although she was very well acquainted with George Gorham’s physiognomy, she examined him disapprovingly through her glass, as if there must be something compromising about it which had hitherto escaped detection. “Well, I don’t agree with you at all,” said the host, emphatically. “Nor I,” said Mr. Carter. “Nor I, Mr. Gorham,” said Mrs. Lawford, plaintively conveying the impression that if a woman so ready as she to accept new points of view abandoned him there could be no chance of his being right. “No, you’re all wrong, my dear fellow,” said Caspar Green. “Such ideas may go down among your long-haired artistic and literary friends at the Argonaut Club, but you can’t expect civilized Christians to accept them. Why, man, it’s monstrous--monstrous, by Jove!--to depreciate that noble fellow’s action--a man we all ought to be proud of, as Miss Newbury says. If we don’t encourage such people, how can we expect them to be willing to risk their lives?” Thereupon the little broker, as a relief to his outraged feelings, emptied his champagne-glass at a draught and scowled irascibly. His jesting equanimity was rarely disturbed; consequently, everybody felt the importance of his testimony.