They were mostly business men, well-to-do, but not of the “millionaire” class, with here and there a writingman, an artist and, as I remember, a clergyman. “I am going to be a commercial traveller in charity,” said the little doctor. “I am going across the frontiers to collect clients for an international society of Good-will. I propose to establish a branch at this table.” The suggestion was received with laughter by some of the men, but, as I saw, with gravity by others. “What would be the responsibilities, Doctor? Do you want money?” This was from the manager of an American railroad. “We shall want a bit,” said the doctor. “Not much. Enough for stamps and occasional booklets and typewriting. The chief responsibility would be to spot lies leading to national antagonism, and to kill them by exposure to cold truth; also, to put in friendly words, privately and publicly, on behalf of human kindness, across the barriers of hate and malignity. Any names for the New York branch?” The doctor took down twelve names, pledged solemnly to his programme.... I remembered that scene in New York when I stood with the little man in Susy Whincop’s drawing-room. “What about this crowd?” I asked. “Sonny,” he said, “this place is reeking with humanity. The real stuff. Idealists who have seen Hell pretty close, most of them. Why, in this room there’s enough good-will to move mountains of cruelty, if we could get a move on all together.” It was then that I saw Charles Fortune, though I was looking for Brand. Fortune was wearing one of his special “faces.” I interpreted it as his soulful and mystical face. It broke a little as he winked at me. “Remarkable gathering,” he said. “The Intellectuals come back to their lair. Some of them, like Little Bo-peep who lost her sheep and left their tails behind them.” “What does that mean?” I asked. “Nothing,” he answered. “We used to talk like that. I’m trying to grope back.” He put his hand over his forehead wearily. “God!” he said. “How terrible was war in a Nissen hut! I cannot even now forget that I was every yard a soldier!” He began to hum his well-remembered anthem, “Blear-eyed Bill, the Butcher of the Boche,” and then checked himself. “Nay, let us forget that melody of blood. Let us rather sing of fragrant things of peace.” He hummed the nursery ballad of “Twinkle, twinkle, little star, How I wonder what you are!” Susy Whincop seized him by the wrist. “So the Fat Boy has escaped the massacre? Come and make us laugh. We are getting too serious at the piano end of the room.” “Lady,” said Fortune, “tempt me not to mirth-making. My irony is terrible when roused.” As he went to the piano I caught sight of Brand just making his way through a group by the door.