At that moment George Lytham drove his car through the gates of Chilton Park and up to the old house. He asked for Mr. Fallaray, was shown into the library and paced up and down the room with his hands deep in his pockets, but with his chin high, his eyes gleaming and a curious smile about his mouth. The moment had come for which he had been waiting since the Armistice, for which he had been working with all his energy since he had got back into civilian clothes. He had left London and driven down to Whitecross on a wave of exhilaration. There had been a meeting at his office at which all the men of his party had been present,—young men, ex-soldiers and sailors temporarily commissioned, who had come out of the great catastrophe to look things straight in the face. “Fallaray is our man,” they had all said unanimously. “Where is he?” And Lytham, who was his friend, had been sent to fetch him and bring him back to London that night. The time was ripe for action. But when the door opened and Fallaray strolled in—he had never seen him stroll before—George drew up short, amazed.—But this was not Fallaray. This was not the man he had seen the previous Friday with rounded shoulders, haggard face and eyes in the back of his head. Here was one who looked like a younger brother of Fallaray, a care-free younger brother, sun-tanned, irresponsible, playing with life. “My dear Fallaray,” he said, hardly knowing what to say, “what have you done to yourself?” And Fallaray sent out a ringing laugh and clapped young Lochinvar on the shoulder. “You notice the change, eh? It’s wonderful, wonderful. I say to myself all day long how wonderful it is.” And he flung his hands up and laughed again and threw himself into a chair and stuck his long legs out. “But what the devil do you want?” he asked lightly, enjoying the opportunity of showing the serious man who came out of a future that he himself had forgotten that he was beginning to revel in his past. “I said that some one would jolly soon see the wreckage on the shore of my Eden and send out a rescue party, and here you are.” Lytham didn’t understand. The words were Greek to him and the attitude so surprising that it awakened in him a sort of irritation. Good God, hadn’t this man, who meant so much to them, read the papers? Wasn’t he aware of the fact that the time had arrived in the history of politics when a strong concerted effort might put a new face upon everything? “Look here, Fallaray,” he said, “let’s talk sense.” “My dear chap,” said Fallaray, “you’ve come to the wrong man for that. I know nothing about sense, and what’s more, I don’t want to. Talk romance to me, quote poetry, tell me your dreams, turn somersaults, but don’t come here and expect any sense from me. I’ve given it up.”