He was back again amongst the people, back again where the wheels of life were crashing.
The people! He drew himself up and his eyes sought the furthest limits of that dim yellow haze.

Somehow, notwithstanding a vague uneasiness which hung about him like an effort of wounded conscience, he had a still greater buoyancy of thought when he considered his possibly altered attitude towards the multitude who waited for his message.

He felt his feet upon the earth with more certainty, with more implicit realism, than in those days when he had spoken to them of the future and had perhaps forgotten to tell them how far away that future must be.
There was something more practical about his present attitude.

What would they say here in Manchester, expecting fire and thunder from his lips and finding him hold out the olive branch?
He shrugged his shoulders;--a useless speculation, after all.

He rang the bell and glanced through the cards which the waiter brought him.
"I have nothing of importance to say to any reporters," he declared, "but I will see them all for two minutes.