MRS. G. Then—­will you read him to me to-night, William?

GLADSTONE.  Why, certainly, my love, if you wish.

(He stoops and kisses her.)

MRS. G. (speaking very gently).  I was waiting for that.

GLADSTONE.  And I was waiting—­for what you have to say.

MRS. G. I can say nothing.

GLADSTONE.  Why, nothing?

MRS. G. Because I can’t be sure of you, my dear.  You’ve done this before.

GLADSTONE.  This time it has been done for me.  My own say in the matter has been merely to acquiesce.

MRS. G. Ah! so you say!  And others—­others may say it for you; but—­

GLADSTONE.  Anno Domini says it, my dear.

MRS. G. Anno Domini has been saying it for the last twenty years.  Much heed you paid to Anno Domini.

GLADSTONE.  You never lent it the weight of your counsels, my own love—­ till now.

MRS. G. I know, William, when talking is useless.

GLADSTONE.  Ah!  I wonder—­if I do.

MRS. G. No; that’s why I complain.  Twenty years ago you said you were going to retire from politics and take up theology again—­that you were old, and had come to an end.  Why, you were only just beginning!  And it will always be the same; any day something may happen—­more Bulgarian atrocities, or a proposal for Welsh disestablishment.  Then you’ll break out again!

GLADSTONE.  But I am in favour of Welsh disestablishment, my dear—­when it comes.

MRS. G. Are you?  Oh, yes; I forgot.  You are in favour of so many things you didn’t used to be.  Well, then, it will be something else.  You will always find an excuse; I shall never feel safe about you.

GLADSTONE (in moved tone).  And if you could feel safe about me—­ what then?

MRS. G. Oh, my dear, my dear, if I could!  Always I’ve seen you neglecting yourself—­always putting aside your real interests—­the things that you most inwardly cared about, the things which you always meant to do when you “had time.”  And here I have had to sit and wait for the time that never came.  Isn’t that true?

GLADSTONE.  There is an element of truth in it, my dear.

MRS. G. Well, twenty years have gone like that, and you’ve “had no time.”  Oh, if you could only go back to the things you meant to do, twenty years ago—­and take them up, just where you left off—­why, I should see you looking—­almost young again.  For you’ve been looking tired lately, my dear.

GLADSTONE.  Tired?  Yes:  I hoped not to have shown it.  But three weeks ago I had to own to myself that I was beginning to feel tired.  I went to Crichton Browne (I didn’t tell you, my love); he said there was nothing the matter with me—­except old age.

MRS. G. You should have come to me, my dear; I could have told you the only thing to do.

GLADSTONE.  Is it too late to tell me now?

MRS. G. Yes; because now you’ve done it, without my advice, William.  Think of that!  For the first time!