“Oh I don’t want you to go by what I’ve told you; I want you to go by what you’ve seen yourself. I remember there were things you told _me_ that weren’t bad in their way.” And at this Paul Muniment sprang to his feet, as if their conversation had drawn to an end or they must at all events be thinking of their homeward way. Hyacinth got up too while his companion stood there. Paul was looking off toward London with a face that expressed all the healthy singleness of his vision. Suddenly he remarked, as if it occurred to him to complete, or at any rate confirm, the declaration he had made a short time before: “Yes, I don’t believe in the millennium, but I do believe in the democracy with a _chance_.” He struck Hyacinth while he spoke these words as such a fine embodiment of the spirit of the people; he stood there in his powerful, sturdy newness with such an air of having learnt what he had learnt and of good nature that had purposes in it, that our hero felt the simple inrush of his old, frequent pride at having a person of that promise, a nature of that capacity, for a friend. He passed his hand into the arm that was so much stronger and longer than his own and said with an imperceptible tremor of voice: “It’s no use your saying I’m not to go by what you tell me. I’d go by what you tell me anywhere. There’s no awkwardness to speak of. I don’t know that I believe exactly what you believe, but I believe in _you_, and doesn’t that come to the same thing?” Paul evidently appreciated the cordiality and candour of this little tribute, and the way he showed it was by a motion of his elbow, to check his companion, before they started to leave the spot, and by looking down at him with a certain anxiety of friendliness. “I should never have taken you to that shop that night if I hadn’t thought you’d jump at the job. It was that flaring little oration of yours, at the club, when you floored Delancey for saying you were afraid, that put me up to it.” “I did jump at it—upon my word I did; and it was just what I was looking for. That’s all correct!” said Hyacinth cheerfully as they went forward. There was a strain of heroism in these words—of heroism of which the sense was not conveyed to Muniment by a vibration in their interlocked arms. Hyacinth didn’t make the reflexion that he was infernally literal; he dismissed the sentimental problem that had worried him; he condoned, excused, admired—he merged himself, resting happy for the time, in the consciousness that Paul was a grand person, that friendship was a purer feeling than love, and that there was an immense deal of affection between them. He didn’t even observe at that moment that it was preponderantly on his own side. XXXVI