CHAPTER XV.
Lord Dymchurch was at a critical moment of his life.
Discontent, the malady of the age, had taken hold upon him.

No ignoble form of the disease; for his mind, naturally in accord with generous thoughts, repelled every suggestion which he recognised as of unworthy origin, and no man saw more clearly how much there was of vanity and of evil in the unrest which rules our time.

He was possessed by that turbid idealism which, in the tumult of a day without conscious guidance, is the peril of gentle souls.

Looking out upon the world, he seemed to himself to be the one idle man in a toiling and aspiring multitude; for, however astray the energy of most, activity was visible on every side, and in activity--so he told himself--lay man's only hope.

He alone did nothing.