The crowd, docile but a trifle mystified, obeyed. Faintly to their ears across the Park came the tremendous chords of the Pilgrims' Chorus from "Tannhäuser," played by the Grenadier Guards Band.
Brand sank down over the rail of his platform until his arms hung limply before him.
"Do these sights and sounds thrill us?" he demanded hoarsely. "Do they move us? I'm asking you. Do they? No! Not a thrill, not an emotion! Why? Because we haven't been educated up to them, you and me. We're only the People. We've always had to go to work, work, work! There's never been any time for us to learn of the beauty that Life holds for us."
The crowd was listening now, as it always will to a cri du cœur.
The man swept on, all aflame.
"Take music! What does it mean to us? Nothing—absolutely nothing! Can you and I interpret a symphony? Not on your life: we've never been taught!" His voice rose to a scream. "And what sort of music do they hand out to us as a rule—us, the People!—yes, and we lap it up? Ragtime! R-r-ragtime!"
Philip and Tim turned away soberly enough. The spectacle of an immortal soul beating its wings against prison-bars does not lend itself to flippant comment.
"The Citizen may be a muddle-headed crank, Phil," said Timothy, "but he is a man for all that."
Philip did not hear, though he would have agreed readily. He was wondering why the haughty Miss Jennings should patronize Mr. Brand's meetings. Still, there she was, endeavouring to take cover from his observation behind a small but heated debate which had arisen between a gentleman with a blue ribbon and another with a red rose. Timothy caught sight of her, too, and promptly rushed in where Philip feared to tread.
"Good-afternoon, Miss Jennings," he said. "I'm surprised to find you, with your strict Conservative principles, coming out to encourage such a low entertainment as this." He indicated Mr. Brand, now working up to a peroration.