a community so much the wider the gulf; the louder the wails here, the bolder the licence there—until we, in the capitals, the so-called centres of culture, see the whole community in a wild state of moral dissolution, and hear voices from both sides melting into one vast uniform cry: the cry of the dying for air!"
He felt the need of making his point of view clear to his hearers at once; and a craving to confess openly the view of life which the solitude and self-absorption of the last few months had rooted in him. When he had once touched on his old subject of contention, he was urged on as if by a storm; the words surged to his lips with a fluency and ardour which surprised himself.
He felt perfectly well that it was the sting in Miss Ragnhild's words which cut him to the heart and inspired his passion,—and that it was her public challenge which called forth this veiled answer. To this was added the solemn silence around him, the long rows of strained listening faces. He did not feel here—as he did in church—any cold abyss between himself and his hearers. For the first time he felt the intoxication, which lies in seeing the thoughts of hundreds, held by the power of his words, the eyes of hundreds hanging on his lips. Going on in a lighter vein, he touched upon the restlessness of town life in all its forms; giving among other things a sketch of the long dinners, with course after course, and an endless variety of wines.
