story through to the end. His auditors even laughed; it was a success. But Gregory felt ashamed of himself. Ransom began telling the story of Mrs. Mandragore and the Maharajah of Pataliapur. He groaned in the spirit. Why? he asked himself, why, why, why? Behind him, they were talking politics. Still pretending to smile at the Mandragore fable, he listened.
'It's the beginning of the end,' the politician was saying, prophesying destructions in a loud and cheerful voice.
'"Dear Maharajah,"' Ransom imitated the Mandragore's intense voice, her aimed and yearning gestures, '"if you knew how I adore the East."'
'Our unique position was due to the fact that we started the industrial system before anyone else. Now, when the rest of the world has followed our example, we find it's a disadvantage to have started first. All our equipment is old-fash . . .'
'Gregory,' called Mary Haig, 'what's your story about the Unknown Soldier?'
'Unknown Soldier?' said Gregory vaguely, trying to catch what was being said behind him.
'The latest arrivals have the latest machinery. It's obvious. We . . .'
'You know the one. The Mandragore's party; you know.'
'Oh, when she asked us all to tea to meet the Mother of the Unknown Soldier.'
'. . . like Italy,' the politician was saying in his loud jolly voice. 'In future, we shall always have one or two millions more population than we can employ. Living on the state.'
One or two millions. He thought of the Derby. Perhaps there might be a hundred thousand in that crowd. Ten Derbies, twenty Derbies, all half starved, walking through the streets with brass bands and banners. He let his
