“You’re right, Mr. Arundel,” he began; and this revival of an all but forgotten name at such an auspicious moment was recognized as possessing the true ffoulis _cachet_. “You’re right. Our foreign policy shall centre round the Balkans: they need a rallying point. You’re right too, O’Neill: we shall insist on the importance of Art for the Masses. You shall write an article on Morris Dancing and we shall publish at least two poems in every number. You’re right too, David, decidedly. And so are all of you others. We cannot, as you rightly insist, go on allowing the present social system to stew in its own juice. We certainly must not allow the great Pegasus of the English poetic tradition to be left for ever ambling round Poppin’s Court, or even to be emasculated in Carlyle Square. Nor must we allow the Empire to be neglected.” The applause was now general. “But what,” demanded the speaker, “what is the link which will unite all these admittedly various policies? What will give them a driving force and a _sacrée union_?” The company had already forgotten their foaming glasses on the table, and were gathering round the handsome orator by the fireplace. They knew that if Gaveston asked a question, it was only because he had an answer ready. The pause was impressive, even agonizing. “A Jacobite Democracy! The triumph of the People under the ægis of the White Rose!” No one interrupted, and Gaveston continued _con fuoco_. “The ubiquitous support of constitutional monarchy as our foreign policy! A Stuart as governor-general for every colony! A cottage and a white rose garden for every working man! And down, down, down with the Usurper from Germany!” “And where does your real King live, Gav?” asked Mongo with his inscrutable, and often perhaps unmeaning, smile. But none knew. “All the laws made since the intrusion of Hanoverian George must be nulled and voided, and we shall have a clean slate to write on. But I must insist on the democratic nature of our programme. The old legitism is worse than useless: we must be Jacobins as well as Jacobites! With such a policy we cut the ground from beneath the feet of Socialists and Conservatives alike. And then our only opponents will be the Liberals, famous only as a discredited and disappearing faction--we shall augment their unenviable fame. And our ensign, you ask?” The question was rhetorical. “Our ensign shall be the Hammer of Labour encircled by White Rose!” While the enthusiastic applause rang among the rafters, O’Neill hurriedly added this device to his cover design. And soon afterwards all retired to their rooms, not, on this night of nights, to sleep, but each to elaborate his first contribution to the new organ. Only Gaveston and David lingered a little longer over the last glowing embers. The two friends were speechless with emotion. The wind had fallen. The tide was out. The silence was intense around the gneiss walls.