"I am as well as I shall ever be," was the quiet reply. "What you see
in my face is just the record of these last four years, the outward
evidence of four years of ceaseless trouble and anxiety. I will not
call myself yet a broken man, but the time is not far off."

Maraton remained silent. His attitude was still sympathetic, but he
seemed determined to carry out his role of listener.

"If the political history of these four years is ever truthfully
written," Mr. Foley continued, "the world will be amazed at the calm
indifference of the people threatened day by day with national disaster.
We who have been behind the scenes have kept a stiff upper lip before
the world, but I tell you frankly, Mr. Maraton, that no Cabinet who
ever undertook the government of this country has gone through what we
have gone through. Three times we have been on the brink of war--twice
on our own account and once on account of those whom we are bound to
consider our allies. The other national disaster we have had to face,
you know of. Still, here we are safe up to to-night. There is nothing
in the whole world we need now so much as rest--just a few months'
freedom from anxiety. Until last week we had dared to hope for it.
Now, breathless still from our last escape, we are face to face suddenly
with all the possibilities of your coming."

"You fear the people," Maraton remarked quietly.

Mr. Foley's pale, worn face suddenly lit up.

"Fear the people!" he repeated, with a note of passion in his tone. "I
fear the people for their own sake; I fear the ruin and destruction they