G. H. Bondy did indeed look sunken and yellow; he had gone very grey about the temples, and lines of weariness made dark shadows around his eyes. He seated himself without a word beside Marek and squeezed his hands together between his knees.

“Come now, what’s wrong with you?” Marek pressed him after a painful silence.

Bondy raised his arms.

“I’m going to retire, old man. You see, it’s got me too . . . me!”

“What, religion?” shouted Marek, recoiling as though from a leper.

Bondy nodded. Was it not a tear of shame that trembled on his lashes? Marek whistled softly. “What—it’s got you now? My poor old fellow!”

“No,” cried Bondy quickly, wiping his eyes. “Don’t think I’m not all right at present; I’ve got under, you might say, Rudy, I’ve beaten it. But, do you know, when it came over me, it was the very happiest moment of my life. You have no idea, Rudy, what tremendous will-power it takes to shake that off.”

“I can well believe it,” said Marek gravely. “And tell me, what sort of . . . er . . . symptoms did you have?”

“Love for my neighbour,” Bondy whispered. “Man, I was frantic with love. I would never have believed it possible to feel anything like it.”

There was silence for a moment.

“So, then, you’ve . . .” Marek began.

“I’ve thrown it off. Rather like a fox that gnaws its own leg off when it’s caught in a trap. But I’m still confoundedly weak after the struggle. An utter wreck, Rudy. As if I’d have typhoid. That’s why I’ve come here, to pick up again, you see. . . . Is it all clear up here?”

“Quite clear; not a single trace of it so far. You can only sense it . . . in Nature and everything; but then one could do that before—one always could, in the mountains.”

Bondy kept a gloomy silence. “Well, and what do you make of it all?” he said absently, after a while. “Have you any notion up here of what’s going on down below?”

“I get the papers. Even from the papers one can to a certain extent deduce what is happening. Of course these journalists distort everything; still, anyone who can read. . . . I say, Bondy, are things really so awful?”

G. H. Bondy shook his head.

“A lot worse than you think. Simply desperate. Listen,” he whispered brokenly. “He’s everywhere by now. I think that . . . that He’s got a definite plan.”

“A plan?” cried Marek, leaping to his feet.

“Don’t shout so. He has some kind of plan, my friend. And He’s going about it deuced cleverly. Tell me, Marek, what is the greatest power in the world?”

“England,” said Marek without hesitation.

“Not at all. Industry is the greatest power in the world. And the so-called ‘proletariat’ are likewise the greatest power in the world. Do you see the scheme now?”