There was not in his voice the faintest note of irony or contempt, no sign whatever that he passed judgement on such an attitude. 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 Hyacinth’s spirit; it was like the touch of a hand at once very firm and very soft, yet strangely cold. “I don’t want in the least to repudiate business, but did you suppose I liked it?” our hero 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!” Paul blandly said. “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 low sound. Paul, 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 little mate, that he replied: “There’s one thing you ought to remember—that it’s quite on the cards the beastly call may never be made.” “I don’t desire that reminder,” Hyacinth said; “and moreover you must let me tell you I somehow 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 mate were charmingly ingenious. “Surely I’ve nothing to do with the particular job——!” “With the execution, perhaps not; but how about the idea of it? You seemed to me to have a great deal to do with it the night you took me to see him.” Paul changed his posture, raising himself, and in a moment was seated Turk-fashion beside his friend. He put his arm over his shoulder and drew him, studying his face; and then in the kindest manner in the world he brought out: “There are three or four definite chances in your favour.” “I don’t want second-rate comfort, you know,” said Hyacinth with his eyes on the distant atmospheric mixture that represented London. “What the devil _do_ you want?” Paul 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 particular pal.” “To part with him?” this character repeated. “I mean putting it at the worst.” “I should think you’d know by yourself—if you’re going to part with _me_.”