"I opine," said the American, "that in your view President Wilson has only one qualification for statesmanship?"
"I didn't say that," said the Warden. "He may have the other, I mean character. Wilson may have the moral courage to act in accordance with his mental insight, and if so, if he has both the mental and moral force necessary, he might well be, what you do not yourself hold, the only living statesman in the world. Time will tell."
Here the Warden smiled a curious smile and made a movement to indicate that the visit must come to an end. He must be alone—he needed to think—alone. How was he at this moment showing "character, moral courage?" Here he was, unable to bear the friction of an ordinary interview. Here he was, almost inclined to be discourteous. Here he was, determined to bear no longer with his visitor.
When the door closed upon the stranger, the Warden, sick with himself and sick with the world, turned to his desk. His letters must be looked through at once. Very well, let him begin with the letter in his pocket.
But he first sorted his other letters, throwing away advertisements and useless papers. Then he took the letter from his pocket. The very handwriting showed incapacity and slackness. At dinner he would have the writer of this letter on one side of him, and on the other—he dared not think! The Warden ground his teeth and tore open the letter, and then a knock came at his door.
"Come in," he said almost fiercely.
Robinson came in. "I was to remind you, sir, that Mr. Bingham would be here to dinner."
So much the better. "Very well, Robinson," he said.
Robinson withdrew.
The letter was a long one. It was addressed at the top "Potten End."