"Influence, if possible," Mr. Foley answered. "Somehow or other, I have always detected in his writing a vein of common sense."
"What the dickens is common sense!" Lord Armley growled.
"Shall I say a sense of the fitness of things?" the Prime Minister replied,—"a sense of proportion, perhaps? Notwithstanding his extraordinary speeches in America, I believe that to some extent Maraton possesses it. Anyhow, it seemed to me to be worth trying. One couldn't face the idea of letting him go up north just now without making an effort."
"Things are really serious there," Lord Armley muttered.
"Worse than any of us know," Mr. Foley agreed. "If you hadn't been coming here, I should have sent for you last night. The French Ambassador was with me for an hour after dinner."
"No fresh trouble?"
"It was a general conversation, but his visit had its purpose—a very definite and threatening purpose, too. I do not blame France. We are under great obligations to her already. Half her fleet is there to watch over our possessions. She naturally must be sure of her quid pro quo. Everywhere, all over the Continent, the idea seems to be spreading that we are going to be plunged into what really amounts to a civil war. The coming of Maraton has strengthened the people's belief. A country without the sinews of movement, a country in which the working classes laid down their tools, a country whose forges had flickered out and whose railroad tracks were deserted, would simply be the helpless prey of any country who cared to pay off old scores."
Lord Armley was looking curiously at the approaching couple.
"Never saw a man," he said, half to himself, "who looked the part so little. Fellow must be well-bred, Foley."
Mr. Foley nodded.