hidebound in my prejudices. You must remember that the Revolution decimated my family. It was a long time ago, but the horror of it is still a live thing.”
“Yet it was the natural outcome,” Mr. Brott said, “of the things which went before. Such hideous misgovernment as generations of your countrymen had suffered was logically bound to bring its own reprisal.”
“There is truth in what you say,” Mr. Sabin admitted. He did not want to talk about the French Revolution.
“You are a stranger in London, are you not?” Mr. Brott asked.
“I feel myself one,” Mr. Sabin answered. “I have been away for a few years, and I do not think that there is a city in the world where social changes are so rapid. I should perhaps except the cities of the country from which I have come. But then America is a universe of itself.”
For an instant Mr. Brott gave signs of the man underneath. The air of polite interest had left his face. He glanced swiftly and keenly at his companion. Mr. Sabin’s expression was immutable. It was he who scored, for he marked the change, whilst Mr. Brott could not be sure whether he had noticed it or not.
“You have been living in America, then?”
“For several years—yes.”
“It is a country,” Mr. Brott said, “which I am particularly anxious to visit. I see my chances, however, grow fewer and fewer as the years go by.”
“For one like yourself,” Mr. Sabin said, “whose instincts and sympathies are wholly with the democracy, a few months in America would be very well spent.”
“And you,” Mr. Brott remarked, “how did you get on with the people?”
Mr. Sabin traced a pattern with his stick upon the marble floor.
“I lived in the country,” he said, “I played golf and read and rested.”
“Were you anywhere near New York?” Mr. Brott asked.
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