"Who is that?" he asked almost involuntarily
"The Bishop of London," said Lincoln.

"No--the other, I mean."
"Poet Laureate."

"You still?"
"He doesn't make poetry, of course. He's a cousin

of Wotton--one of the Councillors. But he's one of
the Red Rose Royalists--a delightful club--and they

keep up the tradition of these things."
"Asano told me there was a King."

"The King doesn't belong. They had to expel him.
It's the Stuart blood, I suppose; but really--"

"Too much?"
"Far too much."

Graham did not quite follow all this, but it seemed
part of the general inversion of the new age. He

bowed condescendingly to his first introduction. It
was evident that subtle distinctions of class prevailed

even in this assembly, that only to a small proportion
of the guests, to an inner group, did Lincoln consider

it appropriate to introduce him. This first introduction
was the Master Aeronaut, a man whose suntanned

face contrasted oddly with the delicate complexions
about him. Just at present his critical defection

from the Council made him a very important person indeed.
His manner contrasted very favourably, according

to Graham's ideas, with the general bearing. He
made a few commonplace remarks, assurances of

loyalty and frank inquiries about the Master's health.
His manner was breezy, his accent lacked the easy

staccato of latter-day English. He made it admirably
clear to Graham that he was a bluff "aerial dog"---he

used that phrase--that there was no nonsense about
him, that he was a thoroughly manly fellow and

old-fashioned at that, that he didn't profess to know much,
and that what he did not know was not worth knowing

He made a manly bow, ostentatiously free from obsequiousness
and passed.

"I am glad to see that type endures," said Graham
"Phonographs and kinematographs," said Lincoln,

a little spitefully. "He has studied from the life."
Graham glanced at the burly form again. It was oddly

reminiscent.
"As a matter of fact we bought him," said Lincoln.

"Partly. And partly he was afraid of Ostrog
Everything rested with him."

He turned sharply to introduce the
Surveyor-General of the Public School Trust. This person

was a willowy figure in a blue-grey academic gown, he
beamed down upon Graham through __pince-nez__ of a

Victorian pattern, and illustrated his remarks by
gestures of a beautifully manicured hand. Graham was

immediately interested in this gentleman's functions,
and asked him a number of singularly direct questions.

The Surveyor-General seemed quietly amused at the
Master's fundamental bluntness. He was a little

vague as to the monopoly of education his Company
possessed; it was done by contract with the syndicate

that ran the numerous London Municipalities, but he
waxed enthusiastic" target="_blank" title="a.热情的，热心的">enthusiastic over educational progress since the

Victorian times. "We have conquered Cram," he
said, "completely conquered Cram--there is not an

examination left in the world. Aren't you glad?"
"How do you get the work done?" asked Graham.

"We make it attractive--as attractive as possible.
And if it does not attract then--we let it go. We cover

an immense field."
He proceeded to details, and they had a lengthy

conversation. The Surveyor-General mentioned the
names of Pestalozzi and Froebel with profound

respect, although he displayed no intimacy with their
epoch-making works. Graham learnt that University

Extension still existed in a modified form. "There is
a certain type of girl, for example," said the Surveyor-

General, dilating with a sense of his usefulness, "with
a perfect passion for severe studies--when they are not

too difficult you know. We cater for them by the
thousand. At this moment," he said with a

Napoleonic touch, "nearly five hundred phonographs
are lecturing in different parts of London on the

influence exercised by Plato and Swift on the love affairs
of Shelley, Hazlitt, and Burns. And afterwards they

write essays on the lectures, and the names in order of
merit are put in conspicuous places. You see how

your little germ has grown? The illiterate middle-class
of your days has quite passed away."

"About the public elementary schools," said
Graham. "Do you control them?"

The Surveyor-General did, "entirely." Now,
Graham, in his later democratic days, had taken a keen

interest in these and his questioning quickened. Certain
casual phrases that had fallen from the old man

with whom he had talked in the darkness recurred to
him. The Surveyor-General, in effect, endorsed the

old man's words. "We have abolished Cram," he
said, a phrase Graham was beginning to interpret as

the abolition of all sustained work. The Surveyor-
General became sentimental. "We try and make the

elementary schools very pleasant for the little
children. They will have to work so soon. Just a few

simple principles--obedience--industry."
"You teach them very little?"

"Why should we? It only leads to trouble and discontent.
We amuse them. Even as it is--there are

troubles--agitations. Where the labourers get the
ideas, one cannot tell. They tell one another. There

are socialistic dreams--anarchy even! Agitators will
get to work among them. I take it--I have always

taken it--that my foremost duty is to fight against
popular discontent. Why should people be made

unhappy?"
"I wonder," said Graham thoughtfully. "But there

are a great many things I want to know."
Lincoln, who had stood watching Graham's face

throughout the conversation, intervened. "There are
others," he said in an undertone.

The Surveyor-General of schools gesticulated him-
self away. "Perhaps," said Lincoln, intercepting a

casual glance, " you would like to know some of these
ladies?"

The daughter of the Manager of the Piggeries of
the European Food Trust was a particularly charming

little person with red hair and animated blue eyes.
Lincoln left him awhile to converse with her, and she

displayed herself as quite an enthusiast for the "dear
old times," as she called them, that had seen the

beginning of his trance. As she talked she smiled, and her
eyes smiled in a manner that demanded reciprocity.