"But for all that, the thing is as I said--none of these things interest me really. It won't alter the fact that I am committed to fight a phantom election about nothing in particular, for a party that's been dead ten years. And if the ghosts win, go into the Parliament as a constituent spectre.... There it is--as a mental phenomenon!" He reiterated his cardinal article. "The interest is dead," he said, "the will has no soul." He became more critical. He bent a little closer to Melville's ear. "It isn't really that I don't believe. When I say I don't believe in these things I go too far. I do. I know, the electioneering, the intriguing is a means to an end. There is work to be done, sound work, and important work. Only----" Melville turned an eye on him over his cigarette end. Chatteris met it, seemed for a moment to cling to it. He became absurdly confidential. He was evidently in the direst need of a confidential ear. "I don't want to do it. When I sit down to it, square myself down in the chair, you know, and say, now for the rest of my life this is IT--this is your life, Chatteris; there comes a sort of terror, Melville." "H'm," said Melville, and turned away. Then he turned on Chatteris with the air of a family physician, and tapped his shoulder three times as he spoke. "You've had too much statistics, Chatteris," he said. He let that soak in. Then he turned about towards his interlocutor, and toyed with a club ash tray. "It's every day has overtaken you," he said. "You can't see the wood for the trees. You forget the spacious design you are engaged upon, in the heavy details of the moment. You are like a painter who has been working hard upon something very small and exacting in a corner. You want to step back and look at the whole thing." "No," said Chatteris, "that isn't quite it." Melville indicated that he knew better. "I keep on, stepping back and looking at it," said Chatteris. "Just lately I've scarcely done anything else. I'll admit it's a spacious and noble thing--political work done well--only-- I admire it, but it doesn't grip my imagination. That's where the trouble comes in." "What _does_ grip your imagination?" asked Melville. He was absolutely certain the Sea Lady had been talking this paralysis into Chatteris, and he wanted to see just how far she had gone. "For example," he tested, "are there--by any chance--other dreams?" Chatteris gave no sign at the phrase. Melville dismissed his suspicion. "What do you mean--other dreams?" asked Chatteris. "Is there conceivably another way--another sort of life--some other aspect----?" "It's out of the question," said Chatteris. He added, rather remarkably, "Adeline's awfully good." My cousin Melville acquiesced silently in Adeline's goodness. "All this, you know, is a mood. My life is made for me--and it's a very good life. It's better than I deserve." "Heaps," said Melville. "Much," said Chatteris defiantly. "Ever so much," endorsed Melville.