een themselves. But he was
really interested for him, for his people, and for the tradition of the
Commons.

"I am Master of the Hounds too," said Gaston dryly. Lord Faramond caught
the meaning, and smiled grimly.

Then came Gaston's decision--he would come back--not to live the thing
down, but to hold his place as long as he could: to fight.

Lord Faramond shrugged a shoulder. "Without her?"

"I cannot say that."

"With her, I can promise nothing--nothing. You cannot fight it so.
No one man is stronger than massed opinion. It is merely a matter of
pressure. No, no; I can promise nothing in that case."

The Premier's face had gone cold and disdainful. Why should a clever
man like Belward be so infatuated? He rose, Gaston thanked him for
the meeting, and was about to go, when the Prime Minister, tapping his
shoulder kindly, said:

"Mr. Belward, you are not playing to the rules of the game." He waved
his hand towards the Chamber of the House. "It is the greatest game
in the world. She must go! Do not reply. You will come back without
her--good-bye!"

Then came Ridley Court. He entered on Sir William and Lady Belward
without announcement. Sir William came to his feet, austere and pale.
Lady Belward's fingers trembled on the lace she held. They looked many
years older. Neither spoke his name, nor did they offer their hands.
Gaston did not wince, he had expected it. He owed these old people
something. They lived according to their lights, they had acted
righteously as by their code, they had used him well--well always.

"Will you hear the whole story?" he said. He felt that it would be best
to tell them all. "Can it do any good?" asked Sir William. He looked
towards his wife.

"Perhaps it is better to hear it," she murmured. She was clinging to a
vague hope.

Gaston told the story plainly, briefly, as he had told his earlier
history. Its concision and simplicity were poignant. From the day he
first saw Andree in the justice's room till the hour when she opened Ian
Belward's letter, his tale went. Then he paused.

"I remember very well," Sir William said, with painful meditation: "a
strange girl, with a remarkable face. You pleaded for her father then.
Ah, yes, an unhappy case!"

"There is more?" asked Lady Belward, leaning on her cane. She seemed
very frail.

Then with a terrible brevity Gaston told them of his uncle, of the
letter to Andree: all, except that Andree was his wife. He had no idea
of sparing