“But what about our ideals?” cried one. “They are as necessary for the life of the party of progress, as the reverence for decayed antiquity is for that of the Tories. Man is a dreaming animal, and his dreams inspire his actions.” “Hence this crazy society,” said Goddard, with a laugh. “I understand now. But man has reason to direct his inspirations. Have your ideals by all means, but see they are true ones--that they can be attained without the sacrifice of minor commonplace reforms. Best to build up your ideal as you go along.” “Synthetic socialism--a good title,” murmured another, a journalist in the labour interest. “Ezekiel has done it all before you, with his line upon line, precept upon precept,’” remarked Goddard. “They did know something down in Judee. But you’ve begged the question as to the glorification of the County Council. You want to make London flow with milk and honey. Is that your real end? Or is it to pose as a composite middle-class Jehovah? I think the latter. No. I believe in progress. I have given up my life to the cause of it, and I will fight for it till the last breath in my body. But I will look upon myself and any institution to which I belong as the merest tool in the hands of social evolution.” Here the discussion was interrupted by the waiter, whose temporary ideal was the perfection of his guidance of Goddard in the matter of sweets. “I will have another helping of beef,” said Goddard. “I am hungry.” “That accounts for your paradoxical humour,” said the journalist. “I have often noticed it.” Goddard nodded and leant back in his chair. Just then he caught sight of Aloysius Gleam, the pink of neatness, with an orchid in the buttonhole of his frock-coat, scanning the room through his eye-glass. When his glance met Goddard he came forward with the expression of a man who has found the object of his search. Pending the arrival of the beef, Goddard rose and advanced to meet him. “I thought I should find you,” said Gleam. “I want to talk to you seriously.” “So do I,” said Goddard. “You’re the very man I was longing for. Perhaps it’s about the same matter.” “Perhaps,” said Gleam, with a twinkle of amusement. “You broach it.” “The rumour about Ecclesby.” “What rumour?” asked Gleam, becoming grave. “The strike. There is a big storm brewing for the near future, I’m afraid. Haven’t you heard?” “Not a suggestion,” returned Gleam. “I had a report from Willaston--he is the League secretary there--forecasting probable events. Nothing is definite. I thought perhaps you might have heard.” Gleam shook his head. “What is wrong? New machinery, and Trades Union and Employers’ Federation at loggerheads about it?” “No. Not machinery. Worse than that. Sweating, out-work. Simple tyranny. Here is the letter.” “I don’t think much of it. It will blow over,” said Gleam, having looked through the letter. “Wait a bit though,” he added, with a quick glance. “Ecclesby is in the Hough division, isn’t it?”