Gortre nodded.
"There can be no doubt whatever," said Mr. Byars, "that among all the great North-country millionaires—men of power and influence, I mean—Schuabe stands first and pre-eminent. His wealth is enormous to begin with. Then he is young—can hardly be forty yet, I should say. He belongs to the new generation. In Walktown he stands entirely alone. Then his brilliancy, his tremendous intellectual powers, are equalled by few men in England. His career at Oxford was marvellous, his political life, only just beginning as it is, seems to promise the very highest success. His private life, as far as we know—and everything about the man seems to point to an ascetic temperament and a refined habit—is without grossness or vice of any kind. In appearance he is one of the ten most striking-looking men in England. His manners are fascinating."
Gortre laughed shortly, a mirthless, bitter laugh.
"So far," he said, "you have drawn a picture which approaches the ideal of what a strong man should be. And I grant you every detail of it. But let me complete it. You will agree with me that mine also is true."
His voice trembled a little. Half unconsciously his eyes wandered to the crucifix on the writing-table. In the red glow of the fire, which had now ceased to crackle and flame, the drooping figure on the cross showed distinct and clear in all its tremendous appeal to the hearts of mankind. Tears came into the young man's eyes, his face became drawn and pained. When he spoke, his voice was full of purpose and earnestness.
"Yes," he said, with an unusual gesture of the hand, "Schuabe is all that you say. In a hard, godless, and material age he is an epitome of it. The curse of indifferentism is over the land. Men have forgotten that this world is but an inn, a sojourning place for a few hours. O
