"He may be hurt." "He should have thought of that before he played the fool. But he will not be hurt; those sort of people never are. I beg your pardon, Brenda. After all, he is your father." "He honestly believes in the Boers, Wilfred." "I know he does. He'd find out his mistake if he went to live amongst them. I wish I could have had half an hour at them, Brenda," he said, with sparkling eyes. "I would have done but for you." "You said quite enough, Wilfred. I was afraid the police would arrest you." "Arrest me! Come, that's good, seeing I spoke for the Government. What about your father and his wretched friends who are abusing their own country?" "There are two sides to every question." "Not to this one," replied Wilfred, who was easily excited on the subject. Brenda decided that it was best not to contradict him. He was so highly strung that in moments of this kind he was not altogether accountable either for his speech or actions. He would flash into a rage on the slightest provocation, and contradict every one around him, like some hysterical woman. No doctor could call him insane, since he knew well how to conduct himself, and was not the prey of any hallucination. But his brain was delicately balanced, and worry or persistent irritation brought him very near the borders of insanity. For this reason he led a quiet life, and saw but few people. The magnitude and whirl of London always overwrought him, and Brenda regretted now that she had argued with him at all. "Have it your own way, Wilfred," she said, taking his arm. "But I hope my father is safe. I have seen enough, so you might take me home." "All right. Don't be angry with me, Brenda. But the silly views your father takes annoy me." "I am not angry with you, Wilfred. Come along; let's get back now." "About time too," said he. "The whole thing's a farce." "Ah! I agree with you there, Mr. Burton," said a voice, and Brenda turned with a start to find Van Zwieten at her elbow. "How are you, Miss Scarse?" he asked quietly, as though nothing unusual had passed between them at their last meeting. "And what do you think of this silly business?" "I think it just what you call it--silly," replied Brenda, coldly. "But I did not expect to hear you say so." "You ought to be pleased that your friends are fighting your battles," said Wilfred. Van Zwieten flicked a grain of dust from off his frock coat and raised his eyebrows. "My friends!" he repeated. "Oh, none of those who spoke are my friends, unless you refer to Mr. Scarse. But of course I don't agree with his views. I am an Imperialist," he said smoothly. Remembering the disclosures he had made to her, Brenda was astounded at the effrontery of the man; but Wilfred understood. "Of course you are an Imperialist," he said; "it pays better!" "Quite so," assented Van Zwieten "it pays better--much better. But you talk in riddles."