OME of my readers may have heard of a club known as the Seekers. Itis now extinct; but in its day it was famous, and included a number ofmen prominent in politics or in the professions. We used to meet oncea fortnight on the Saturday night, in London during the winter, but inthe summer usually at the country house of one or other of the members,where we would spend the week-end together. The member in whose housethe meeting was held was chairman for the evening; and after the paperhad been read it was his duty to call upon the members to speak in whatorder he thought best. On the occasion of the discussion which I am torecord, the meeting was held in my own house, where I now write, on theNorth Downs. The company was an interesting one. There was Remenham,then Prime Minister, and his great antagonist Mendoza, both of whomwere members of our society. For we aimed at combining the mostopposite elements, and were usually able, by a happy traditioninherited from our founder, to hold them suspended in a temporaryharmony. Then there was Cantilupe, who had recently retired frompublic life, and whose name, perhaps, is already beginning to beforgotten. Of younger men we had Allison, who, though still engaged inbusiness, was already active in his socialist propaganda. AngusMacCarthy, too, was there, a man whose tragic end at Saint Petersburgis still fresh in our minds. And there were others of less note;Wilson, the biologist, Professor Martin, Coryat, the poet, and one ortwo more who will be mentioned in their place.
After dinner, the time of year being June, and the weather unusuallywarm, we adjourned to the terrace for our coffee and cigars. The airwas so pleasant and the prospect so beautiful, the whole weald ofSu