A barely furnished man's room, comfortable, austere, scholarly.
The refuge of a busy man, to judge by the piles of books and papers which littered the large open writing-table. There were despatch boxes turned upside down, a sea of parchment and foolscap. In the midst of it all a man deep in thought.
A visitor, entering with the freedom of an old acquaintance, laid his hand upon his shoulder and greeted him with an air of suppressed enthusiasm.
"Planning the campaign, eh, Brott? Or is that a handbook to Court etiquette? You will need it within the week. There are all sorts of rumours at the clubs."
Brott shook himself free from his fit of apathetic reflection. He would not have dared to tell his visitor where his thoughts had been for the last half hour.
"Somehow," he said, "I do not think that little trip to Windsor will come just yet. The King will never send for me unless he is compelled."
His visitor, an ex-Cabinet Minister, a pronounced Radical and a lifelong friend of Brott's, shrugged his shoulders.
"That time," he said, "is very close at hand. He will send for Letheringham first, of course, and great pressure will be brought to bear upon him to form a ministry. But without you he will be helpless. He has not the confidence of the people."
"Without me," Brott repeated slowly. "You think then that I should not accept office with Letheringham?"
His visitor regarded him steadily for a moment, open-mouthed, obviously taken aback.
"Brott, are you in your right senses?" he asked incredulously. "Do you know what you are saying?"
Brott laughed a little nervously.
"This is a great issue, Grahame," he said. "I will confess that I am in an undecided state. I am not sure that the country is in a sufficiently advanced state for our propaganda. Is this really our opportunity, or is it only the shadow of what is to come thrown before? If we show our hand too soon all is lost for this generation. Don't look at me as though I were insane, Grahame.
Remember that the country is only just free from a long era of Conservative rule."
"The better our opportunity," Grahame answered vigorously. "Two decades of puppet government are enervating, I admit, but they only pave the way more surely to the inevitable reaction. What is the matter with you, Brott? Are you ill? This is the great moment of our lives. You must speak at Manchester and Birmingham within this week. Glasgow is already preparing for you. Everything and everybody waits for your judgment. Good God, man, it's magnificent!
Where's your enthusiasm? Within a month you must be Prime Minister, and we will show the world the way to a new era."
Brott sat quite still. His friend's words had stirred him for the moment. Yet he seemed the victim of a curious indecision. Grahame leaned over towards him.
"Brott, old friend," he said, "you are not ill?"
Brott shook his head.
"I am perfectly well," he said.
Grahame hesitated.
"It is a delicate thing to mention," he said. "Perhaps I shall pass even the bounds of our old comradeship. But you have changed.
Something is wrong with you. What is it?"
"There is nothing," Brott answered, looking up. "It is your fancy.
I am well enough."
Grahame's face was dark with anxiety.
"This is no idle curiosity of mine," he said. "You know me better than that. But the cause which is nearer my heart than life itself is at stake. Brott, you are the people's man, their promised redeemer. Think of them, the toilers, the oppressed, God's children, groaning under the iniquitous laws of generations of evil statesmanship. It is the dawn of their new day, their faces are turned to you. Man, can't you hear them crying? You can't fail them. You mustn't. I don't know what is the matter with you, Brott, but away with it. Free yourself, man."
Brott sighed wearily, but already there was a change in him. His face was hardening - the lines in his face deepened. Grahame continued hastily - eagerly.
"Public men," he said, "are always at the mercy of the halfpenny press, but you know, Brott, your appearance so often in Society lately has set men's tongues wagging. There is no harm done, but it is time to stop them. You are right to want to understand these people. You must go down amongst them. It has been slumming in Mayfair for you, I know. But have done with it now. It is these people we are going to fight. Let it be open war. Let them hear your programme at Glasgow. We don't want another French Revolution, but it is going to be war against the drones, fierce, merciless war!
You must break with them, Brott, once and for ever. And the time is now."
Brott held out his hand across the table. No one but this one man could have read the struggle in his face.
"You are right, Grahame. I thank you. I thank you as much for what you have left unsaid as for what you have said. I was a fool to think of compromising. Letheringham is a nerveless leader. We should have gone pottering on for another seven years. Thank God that you came when you did. See here!"
He tossed him over a letter. Grahame's cheek paled as he read.
"Already!" he murmured.
Brott nodded.
"Read it!"
Grahame devoured every word. His eyes lit up with excitement.
