“Anything might have happened that instant had there been a bit of leadership,” he added. “The people wanted to talk to their father--the Deputy. You would have wept for their forbearance, or stupidity, as you like. Their dead were at their feet, the cries of the wounded in their ears, and still they weren’t maddened. They only wanted to show their _faryad_. If there had been the right Englishman on the spot--why, the crowd would have been allowed to go forward with its document. I’ve an idea that it was something dangerously like funk that caused that third volley, and that nobody will ever be so sorry for what happened to-day, as England herself. I call it human the way your people lost their heads.” “Mahatma-ji’s ideal isn’t human, Richard. It is of the Soul. We shall suffer and India shall suffer--for to-day.” “I’ve got a lot to learn about this man’s India. I can see that,” the American said queerly. XLIV THE SLATE AND THE SPONGE PIDGE was choosing a serial for _The Public Square_. The choice lay now between two manuscripts on the desk before her eyes. One was by a maker of the “new” American literature, named Carver, who had dared to perform the work in one sustained, slow movement, bound to ward off excessive popularity, a thing of drabs and tans and grays, but earnest, even in its hopelessness. It consistently portrayed a cross section of life, a fine piece of human observation, but altogether unlit with intuition. The other book was a novel of New York, by a woman whose name was entirely unheard of. This manuscript had been refused several times as a serial in the past year, and several times as a book prospect. The letters of refusal from the different editors were also on Pidge Musser’s desk. One said, “This book is too much of a gamble for an unknown name.” The united opinion of all professional readers was that this story was unquestionably an augur for the future of the novelist, rather than a compelling announcement of her arrival. In her own heart, Pidge believed that the woman’s story would interest more readers than Carver’s. Also, _The Public Square_ would be saved considerable money in taking the woman’s story, for Carver stood out for rather a high price for his first American serial rights. “It isn’t the freedom of ignorance,” she said at last, about the lower-priced book, “but it isn’t the freedom of knowledge, either. ‘A man is crippled while he’s learning technic.’... No, I can’t take the chance!” So the novel by the unknown woman went back to Harrow Street with its refusals, and found a resting place in the drawer under the mirror that waved; and only Miss Claes and the author, herself, knew who was hurt. * * * * *