"They live decent lives--most of them," Macheson continued thoughtfully. "They can't understand that any change is needed, no more can their landlords, or their clergy. A mechanical performance of the Christian code seems all that any one expects from them. Dick, it's all they're capable of. You can't alter laws. You can't create intelligence. You can't teach these people spirituality." "As well try to teach 'em to fly," Holderness answered. "I could have told you so before, if it had been of any use. What about these Welshmen, though?" "It's hysteria," Macheson declared. "If you can get through the hide, you can make the emotions run riot, stir them into a frenzy. It's a debauch. I've been there to see. The true spiritual life is partly intellectual." "What are you going to do now?" Holderness asked. "I don't know," Macheson answered. "I haven't finished yet. Dick, curse all women!" The giant looked thoughtful. "I'm sorry," he said simply. Macheson swung himself from the table. He walked up and down the room. "It isn't serious," he declared. "It isn't even definite. But it's like a perfume, or a wonderful chord of music, or the call of the sea to an inland-bred viking! It's under my heel, Dick, but I can't crush it. I came away from Leicestershire because I was afraid." "Does she--exist?" Holderness asked. "Not for me," Macheson declared hurriedly. "Don't think that. I shouldn't have mentioned it, but for our compact." Holderness nodded. "Bad luck," he said. "This craving for something we haven't got--can't have--I wish I could find the germ. The world should go free of it for a generation. We'd build empires, we'd reconstruct society. It's a deadly germ, though, Victor, and it's the princes of the world who suffer most. There's only one antidote--work!" "Give me some," Macheson begged. The giant looked at him thoughtfully. "Right," he answered, "but not to-day. Clothes up in town?" Macheson nodded. "We'll go on the bust," Holderness declared. "I've been dying for a spree! We'll have it. Where are you staying?" "My old rooms," Macheson answered. "I looked in on my way from the station and found them empty." "Capital! We're close together. Come on! We'll do the West End like two gay young bucks. Five o'clock, isn't it? We'll walk up Regent Street and have an 'apéritif' at Biflore's. Wait till I brush my hat." Macheson made no difficulties, but he was puzzled. Holderness he knew well enough had no leanings towards the things which he proposed with so much enthusiasm. Was it a pilgrimage they were to start upon--or what? After all, why need he worry? He was content to go his friend's way.