“You will look after yourself,” I prophesied, “by putting the blame on the government and rousing your people against law and order instead of telling them there was never a hope of their getting any of the things you promised.” Though my antagonist betrayed his feelings in an angry flush, he affected to dismiss my prediction as something unworthy of his notice: “They said that at Woolhampton,” he answered, “when we seized the Town Hall. I’m always stirring people up, it seems . . . Provocative . . . because I put the blame where the blame should go! You haven’t called me a paid agitator yet.” “I’ve no intention of doing so. I say to your face, as I said in print, that you’re provoking something which may end in a revolution. I take the purity of your motives for granted. You’ve volunteered to tell me the truth and to shew that you’re not organizing constructive revolution.” . . . Despite the dislike which I could not help feeling, there was no doubting the man’s passionate sincerity. He felt for the people he championed the same frenzied protectiveness and lust for revenge that I should have felt if my sister had been hacked to pieces before my eyes. Argument was out of the question; warnings were idle. I reconsidered the phrase I had used in likening him to a spiteful ferret, for he was touched with the greatness that is inseparable from fanaticism. Self-advancement and self-advertising had no place in his thoughts, though he was arrogantly confident of his authority as a popular leader and of his power to cut knots that had baffled every other hand. In a conversation that extended over two hours I learned nothing of his private history; at the end I realized no better than at the beginning why he had singled me out for his aggressive apologia. The resonant blows of our blunt swords echoed emptily on our impenetrable harness; and, when I saw him to the door, I was saying for the fiftieth time: “You’re trying to stir up a revolution”; and for the fiftieth time he was retorting: “If your precious government can’t do anything, some one else had better have a try.” As we crossed swords for the last time, Barbara drove up to the door. She had been giving another sitting to Wace; and her appearance, in an ermine coat and a diamond star, was not wasted on Griffiths, who bowed ironically and looked her up and down as though he were assessing her in terms of daily meat-meals. “Well, I must be off,” he said; and I know he was recapitulating again: “_You. And your wife. And six servants . . ._” “I’m glad to have had this talk,” I said, “even though we’ve not convinced each other. If you think I’ve misrepresented you, I can only offer you equal space in our columns to put yourself right with our readers.” “I shan’t have time,” he answered. “You can do it in two lines. If you’ll answer my charge that you’re working, consciously or unconsciously, for a revolution . . .”