Chapter VIII

I remonstrated with them. I knew it was hopeless, and my heart sank; but I did my best. Greatest agony of all it was to know that these women in whom I had trusted, whom I had looked to as pioneers, as auguries of what was to be and what still will be, were, when the crisis came, still shackled and bound by the little petty jealousies of the old system. With set, white faces they glowered upon me (it was raining a little I remember, and the ground at our feet was muddy and covered with stained and trampled paper) as I spoke, softly and passionately, of muddle and waste, of the sordid and furtive shames and reticences that man has brought with him from the ancestral past, that he must shed before we build for our gods the diviner temples that might be.... Night came over ... and then, as my voice failed, a tall man stepped out from behind a hoarding. It was Montacute, the Prime Minister. “I am very sorry for you,” he said simply, “but I am afraid, Mr. Bilgewater, we shall have to ask you to resign.” He seemed to hesitate a moment; then, as though half ashamed, he held out his hand and looked me in the eyes.... I had known him since I was a boy at school and he a young man, a fastidious and kindly young man who had seemed almost too delicate for the rough work of politics. He had always taken a friendly interest in me even when I was bitterly fighting him.... “Good-bye,” he said. My voice was husky as I returned his farewell.