d, "once really understood,
you never can forget. You can travel or amuse yourself in any way, but
their faces are always coming before you, their voices seem always in
your ears. It is the one eternal sadness of life. And the strangest
part of it is, that just as you who have once really understood can
never forget, so it is the most difficult thing in the world to make
those people understand who have not themselves lived and toiled
amongst them. It is a cry which you cannot translate, but if once you
have heard it, it will follow you from the earth to the stars."

"You too, then," she said, "have some of the old aim at heart. You are
not going to immerse yourself wholly in politics?"

"My studies," he said, "will be in life. It is not from books that I
hope to gain experience. I want to get a little nearer to the heart of
the thing. You and I may easily come across one another, even in this
great city."

"You," she said, "are going to watch, to observe, to trace the external
only that you may understand the internal. But I am going to work on my
hands and knees."

"And you think that I am going to play the dilettante?"

"Not altogether. But you will want to pass from one scheme to another
to see the inner workings of all. I shall be content to find occupation
in any one.

"I shall be coming to you," he said, "for information and help."

"I doubt it," she answered, cheerfully. "Never mind! It is pleasant to
build castles, and we may yet find ourselves working side by side."

He suddenly looked at her.

"I have answered all your questions," he said. "There is something
about you which I should like to know."

"I am sure you shall."

"Lord Arranmore came to me when I was staying at the Metropole with your
uncle and cousin. He wished me to use my influence with you to induce
you to accept a certain sum of money which it seemed that you had
already declined."

"Well?"

"Of course I refused. In the first place, as I told him, I was not
aware that I possessed any influence over you. And in the second I had
every confidence in your own judgment."

She was suddenly very thoughtful.

"My own judgment," she repeated. "I am afraid that I have lost a good
deal of faith in that lately."

"Why?"

"I have learned to repent of that impulsive visit of mine to Enton."

"Again why?"

"I was mad with rage against Lord Arranmore. I think that I was wrong.
It was many years ago, and he has repented."

Brooks smi