intrinsic worth, irrespective of college degrees and family and
fortune. It was some time before Emmet, feeling his way by little and
little, realised the anomaly of a professor in St. George's Hall with
Democratic sympathies. Miss Wycliffe's judgment of the two men, her
belief that they would get on well together, was entirely justified by
the result, which became undoubted before an hour had passed. Emmet
was by no means lacking in shrewdness, and, having once become
convinced that caution was needless, he talked more freely, until, to
his listener's interested observation, he appeared quite another man.
He began to show some of that eloquence of which Cardington had spoken,
an eloquence that derived its effect not from the artifices of
rhetoric, but from a deep conviction and a personal grievance. He
spoke in adequate language, that left no doubt of his meaning, and the
meaning itself was sufficiently striking to rivet attention. Leigh
began to realise why it was that the bishop had thought him dangerous.
He forgot to wonder at Emmet's gift of speech in the new point of view
that was gradually presented to his mind. He was struck particularly
by the fact that St. George's Hall, which seemed to him comparatively
insignificant in the educational world, should loom so large in this
man's horizon that the towers which stood to him for star-gazing and
cloistered study and old tradition should appear to Emmet merely the
bulwarks of class privilege and social tyranny.

The fact that Leigh was a stranger in Warwick must have given his guest
a peculiar sense of freedom. One has only to recall the confidences
which men that meet casually on the train will sometimes repose in each
other, to realise how this can be. Under such circumstances, each
tells his story to unprejudiced ears, without fear that it will one day
be turned to his disadvantage. Nor was this the first time in Leigh's
life when he had been surprised to find himself the recipient of