“Poor Tolstoï,” said Mr. Kane, going up and shaking hands with the others, “as I understand it, is at present able only to rehearse his rôle, because his family won’t consent to anything else. He’s sold all he has in order to give to the poor, but his wife manages the proceeds.” “It’s easy enough to throw ridicule on him,” said the gentleman against the window, who now stood up. “_I_ throw no ridicule upon him,” said the tall, gaunt man. “He has taught me at least this, that contempt is of the devil--I beg your pardon, Kane--and I appreciate to the utmost the spiritual grandeur of the man’s nature. But practically, I don’t follow him. We shall never redeem the world by eschewing it. Society is not to be saved by self-outlawry. The body politic is to be healed politically. The way to have the golden age is to elect it by the Australian ballot. The people must vote themselves into possession of their own business, and intrust their economic affairs to the same faculty that makes war and peace, that frames laws, and that does justice. What I object to in Tolstoï is his utter unpracticality. I cannot forgive any man, however good and great, who does not measure the means to the end. If there is anything in my own life that I can regard with entire satisfaction it is that at every step of my career I have invoked the light of common-sense. Whatever my enemies may say against me, they cannot say that I have not instantly abandoned any project when I found it unpractical. I abhor dreamers; they have no place in a world of thinking and acting.” Ray saw Kane arching his eyebrows, while the other began again: “I tell you”-- “I want to introduce my young friend Mr. Ray,” Mr. Kane broke in. The old man took Ray’s hand between two hot palms, and said, “Ah!” with a look at him that was benign, if somewhat bewildered. “You know Mr. Ray, Chapley,” Kane pursued, transferring him to the other, who took his hand in turn. “Mr. Ray?” he queried, with the distress of the elderly man who tries to remember. “If you forget your authors in the green wood so easily, how shall it be with them in the dry?” Kane sighed; and now the publisher woke up to Ray’s identity. “Oh, yes, yes, yes! Of course! Mr. Ray, of--of--Mr. Ray, of”-- “Midland,” Ray suggested, perspiring. “Why, certainly!” Mr. Chapley pressed his hand with as much apologetic entreaty as he could intimate in that way, and assured him that he was glad to see him; and then he said to the old man, whose name Kane had not mentioned to Ray in presenting him, but whom Ray knew to be Hughes, “Well, I must be going now. I’m glad to find you looking so much better this morning.” “Oh; I’m quite a new man--quite a new man!” “You were always that!” said Mr. Chapley, with a certain fondness. He sighed, “I wish I knew your secret.” “Stay, and let him expound it to us all!” Kane suggested. “I’ve no doubt he would.”