He was the sport of a mocking Will o' the Wisp which he had taken for Destiny.
Once on coming out of his headquarters he met Silas, who was walking up the street with two or three of his committee-men.

In accordance with the ordinary amenities of English political life, the two candidates shook hands, and withdrew a pace or two aside to chat for a while.

This was the first time they had come together since the afternoon of revelation, and there was a moment of constraint during which Silas tugged at his streaked beard and looked with mournful wistfulness at his son.
"I wish I were not your opponent, Paul," said he in a low voice, so as not to be overheard.
"That doesn't matter a bit," Paul replied courteously.

"I see you're putting up an excellent fight." "It's the Lord's battle.

If it weren't, do you think I would not let you win ?" The same old cry.