Mr. Beldeman entered the room, carrying his hat in his hand, unruffled by his long wait, to all appearance wearing the same clothes, the same smile, as on his visit to the hotel in Manchester. Maraton greeted him good-humouredly.
"Well, Mr. Beldeman," he began, "you see, I have made things all right for your syndicate of manufacturers, although I couldn't accept your offer. Sit down. You won't keep me long, will you? I have to go out. Perhaps you are going to give me a little for my Lancashire operatives. They can do with it. Strike pay over here is none too liberal, you know."
Mr. Beldeman laid down his hat. He blinked for a moment behind his gold spectacles.
"The Lancashire strike," he said softly, "is of very little service to my principals. As you know, it is more than that for which we were hoping."
Maraton nodded but made no remark.
"My principals," Mr. Beldeman continued, "have watched your career, Mr. Maraton, for some time. They have studied eagerly your speeches and your writings, and when you arrived on this side they expected something more from you. They expected, in fact, the enunciation of a certain doctrine which you have already propounded with singular eloquence in other parts of the world. They expected to find it the text of your first words to Labour in this country. I refer, of course, to the universal strike."
"It was my great theory," Maraton admitted, suddenly grave. "I will not say even now that I have abandoned it. It is in abeyance."
"My principals," Mr. Beldeman remarked slowly, "would like it to take place."
Maraton smiled.
"Your principals, I presume," he said, "do not imagine that I am on the earth to gratify them, even though they did offer me—let me see, how much was it—a million pounds?"