I have no need of the world. The battle that you speak of--well, I have
been in the fray, as you know. The memory of it is still a nightmare to
me."

Borrowdean had the appearance of a man who sought to put a restraint upon
his words. He was silent for a moment, and then he spoke very
deliberately.

"Mannering," he said, "do not think me wholly unsympathetic. There is a
side of me which sympathises deeply with every word which you have said.
And there is another which forces me to remind you again, and again, that
we men were never born to linger in the lotos lands of the world. You do
not stand for yourself alone. You exist as a unit of humanity. Think of
your responsibilities. You have found for yourself a beautiful corner of
the world. That is all very well for you, but how about the rest? How
about the millions who are chained to the cities that they may earn their
living pittance, whose wives and children fill the churchyards, the
echoes of whose weary, never-ceasing cry must reach you even here? They
are the people, the sufferers, fellow-links with you in the chain of
humanity. You may stand aloof as you will, but you can never cut yourself
wholly away from the great family of your fellows. You may hide from your
responsibilities, but the burden of them will lie heavy upon your
conscience, the poison will penetrate sometimes into your most jealously
guarded paradise. We are of the people's party, you and I, Mannering, and
I tell you that the tocsin has sounded. We need you!"

A shadow had fallen upon Mannering's face. Borrowdean was in earnest, and
his appeal was scarcely one to be treated lightly. Nevertheless,
Mannering showed no sign of faltering, though his tone was certainly
graver.