em. An artist isn't--never, never. Why _should_ he
be? Don't forget how clever I am."

"Oh if it wasn't for that!" she panted, pale with the effort to resist
his tone. Then she put it to him: "Do you pretend that if I were to die
to-morrow you'd stay in the House?"

"If you were to die? God knows! But you do singularly little justice to
my incentives," he pursued. "My political career's everything to my
mother."

This but made her say after a moment: "Are you afraid of your mother?"

"Yes, immensely; for she represents ever so many possibilities of
disappointment and distress. She represents all my father's as well as
all her own, and in them my father tragically lives again. On the other
hand I see him in bliss, as I see my mother, over our marriage and our
life of common aspirations--though of course that's not a consideration
that I can expect to have power with you."

She shook her head slowly, even smiling with her recovered calmness and
lucidity. "You'll never hold high office."

"But why not take me as I am?"

"Because I'm abominably keen about that sort of thing--I must recognise
my keenness. I must face the ugly truth. I've been through the worst;
it's all settled."

"The worst, I suppose, was when you found me this morning."

"Oh that was all right--for you."

"You're magnanimous, Julia; but evidently what's good enough for me
isn't good enough for you." Nick spoke with bitterness.

"I don't like you enough--that's the obstacle," she held herself in hand
to say.

"You did a year ago; you confessed to it."

"Well, a year ago was a year ago. Things are changed to-day."

"You're very fortunate--to be able to throw away a real devotion," Nick
returned.

She had her pocket-handkerchief in her hand, and at this she quickly
pressed it to her lips as to check an exclamation. Then for an instant
she appeared to be listening to some sound from outside. He interpreted
her movement as an honourable impulse to repress the "Do you mean the
devotion I was witness of this morning?" But immediately afterwards she
said something very different: "I thought I heard a ring. I've
telegraphed for Mrs. Gresham."

He wondered. "Why did you do that?"

"Oh I want her."

He walked to the window, where the curtains had not been drawn, and saw
in the dusk a cab at the door. When he turned back he went on: "Why
won't you trust me to make you like me, as you call it, better? If I
make you like me as well as I like you