An England where each man should know his place, and never change it, but serve in it loyally in his own caste.

Where every man, from nobleman to labourer, should be an oligarch by faith, and a gentleman by practice.

An England so steel-bright and efficient that the very sight should suffice to impose peace.

An England whose soul should be stoical and fine with the stoicism and fineness of each soul amongst her many million souls; where the town should have its creed and the country its creed, and there should be contentment and no complaining in her streets.
And as he walked down the Strand, a little ragged boy cheeped out between his legs: "Bloodee discoveree in a Bank--Grite sensytion! Pi-er!" Miltoun paid no heed to that saying; yet, with it, the wind that blows where man lives, the careless, wonderful, unordered wind, had dispersed his austere and formal vision.

Great was that wind--the myriad aspiration of men and women, the praying of the uncounted multitude to the goddess of Sensation--of Chance, and Change.