h or policy.

Exasperated and with jaw set, but with a defiant smile, Eglington drove
straight home after the House rose. He found Hylda in the library with
an evening paper in her hands. She had read and reread his speech, and
had steeled herself for "the inevitable hour," to this talk which would
decide for ever their fate and future.

Eglington entered the room smiling. He remembered the incident of the
night before, when she came to his study and then hurriedly retreated.
He had been defiant and proudly disdainful at the House and on the way
home; but in his heart of hearts he was conscious of having failed to
have his own way; and, like such men, he wanted assurance that he could
not err, and he wanted sympathy. Almost any one could have given it
to him, and he had a temptation to seek that society which was his the
evening before; but he remembered that she was occupied where he could
not reach her, and here was Hylda, from whom he had been estranged,
but who must surely have seen by now that at Hamley she had been
unreasonable, and that she must trust his judgment. So absorbed was he
with self and the failure of his speech, that, for a moment, he forgot
the subject of it, and what that subject meant to them both.

"What do you think of my speech, Hylda?" he asked, as he threw himself
into a chair. "I see you have been reading it. Is it a full report?"

She handed the paper over. "Quite full," she answered evenly.

He glanced down the columns. "Sentimentalists!" he said as his eye
caught an interjection. "Cant!" he added. Then he looked at Hylda, and
remembered once again on whom and what his speech had been made. He saw
that her face was very pale.

"What do you think of my speech?" he repeated stubbornly.

"If you think an answer necessary, I regard it as wicked and
unpatriotic," she answered firmly.

"Yes, I suppose you would," he rejoined bitingly. She got to her feet
slowly, a flush passing over her face. "If you think I would, did you
not think that a great many other people would think so too, and for
the same reason?" she asked, still evenly, but very slowly. "Not for the
same reason," he rejoined in a low, savage voice.

"You do not treat me well," she said, with a voice that betrayed no
hurt, no indignation. It seemed to state a fact deliberately; that was
all.

"No, please," she added quickly, as she saw him rise to his feet with
anger trembling at his lips. "Do not say what is on your tongue