There was not in his voice the faintest note of irony or contempt, no sign whatever that he passed judgment on such a tendency. He spoke in a quiet, human, memorising manner, as if it had originally quite entered into his thought to allow for weak regrets. Nevertheless the complete reasonableness of his tone itself cast a chill on his companion’s spirit; it was like the touch of a hand at once very firm and very soft, but strangely cold. “I don’t want in the least to throw the business up, but did you suppose I liked it?” Hyacinth asked, with rather a forced laugh. “My dear fellow, how could I tell? You like a lot of things I don’t. You like excitement and emotion and change, you like remarkable sensations, whereas I go in for a holy calm, for sweet repose.” “If you object, for yourself, to change, and are so fond of still waters, why have you associated yourself with a revolutionary movement?” Hyacinth demanded, with a little air of making rather a good point. “Just for that reason!” Muniment answered, with a smile. “Isn’t our revolutionary movement as quiet as the grave? Who knows, who suspects, anything like the full extent of it?” “I see—you take only the quiet parts!” In speaking these words Hyacinth had had no derisive intention, but a moment later he flushed with the sense that they had a sufficiently petty sound. Muniment, however, appeared to see no offence in them, and it was in the gentlest, most suggestive way, as if he had been thinking over what might comfort his comrade, that he replied, “There’s one thing you ought to remember—that it’s quite on the cards it may never come off.” “I don’t desire that reminder,” Hyacinth said; “and, moreover, you must let me say that, somehow, I don’t easily fancy _you_ mixed up with things that don’t come off. Anything you have to do with will come off, I think.” Muniment reflected a moment, as if his little companion were charmingly ingenious. “Surely, I have nothing to do with this idea of Hoffendahl’s.” “With the execution, perhaps not; but how about the conception? You seemed to me to have a great deal to do with it the night you took me to see him.” Muniment changed his position, raising himself, and in a moment he was seated, Turk-fashion, beside his mate. He put his arm over his shoulder and held him, studying his face; and then, in the kindest manner in the world, he remarked, “There are three or four definite chances in your favour.” “I don’t want comfort, you know,” said Hyacinth, with his eyes on the distant atmospheric mixture that represented London. “What the devil _do_ you want?” Muniment asked, still holding him, and with perfect good-humour. “Well, to get inside of _you_ a little; to know how a chap feels when he’s going to part with his best friend.” “To part with him?” Muniment repeated. “I mean, putting it at the worst.” “I should think you would know by yourself, if you’re going to part with me!”