She saw Stephen Drake come forward and give place to his opponent, and after a little the street began to clear.  The number thirty-five, incessantly repeated by the retiring crowd, penetrated to her mind and informed her of the actual majority.  In about half an hour a little stream of people trickled from the porch of the Town Hall, and, gathering in volume, flowed into a narrow passage which led to the Conservative Club, a few yards to the right of the hotel.  Clarice caught a glimpse of Drake’s face at the head of the procession as he passed under a gas-lamp above the mouth of the passage, and was surprised by its expression of despondency.  A fear sprang up in her mind that some mistake had been made in the announcement, but the fear was dispelled by the tone of her uncle’s voice as he shouted an invitation to some one across the street to join them at the Club.  It was a tone of boisterous exultation.  There could be no doubt that Drake had been elected, and she wondered at the cause of his dejection.

A few minutes later a second stream flowed along the opposite pavement towards the Liberal Club in the Market Square, and drew most of the remaining loiterers into its current.  The noise and bustle grew fainter and died away:  the lights were extinguished in the houses, and only one small group, clustering excitedly about the passage, relieved the quarter of its native sleepiness.

Clarice turned with a certain reluctance into the room.  It was empty, and the voices of her companions rose from the hall below.  She did not follow them, however.  There was time enough, for the party could not leave until Captain Le Mesurier returned from the Conservative Club.  She went back to her post.  Through the open window opposite to her she perceived the glimmer of a light dress in the dark of the room, but it was motionless now, a fixed patch of white.  Clarice experienced a revulsion of pity for Lady Cranston.  ‘What must be her thoughts?’ she asked herself.

She remained at the window until the party from the Club emerged again from the passage and turned towards the hotel.

Clarice heard her husband’s voice asking where Drake was, and what in the world was the matter with him.  Captain Le Mesurier replied, and the reply rang boisterously.  ’He’s behind.  He’s a bit unstrung, I fancy, and reason enough too, after all his work, eh?  You see, Drake’s not in the habit of taking holidays,’ and the Captain grew hilarious over his allusion.

Across the street Clarice saw the light dress flutter and move abruptly.  It was evident that Lady Cranston had heard and understood the words.

Drake followed some few minutes later, and alone.  He walked slowly to the hotel with an air of utter weariness, as though the springs of his activity had been broken.  A moment after, he had entered it; she heard him ascending the staircase, and she drew instinctively close within the curtains.  He pushed open the door, walked forward into the embrasure of the window, and stood within a foot of Clarice, apparently gazing into the street.  A pale light from the gas-lamp over the front door flickered upon his face.  It was haggard and drawn, the lips were pressed closely together, the eyelids shut tightly over the eyes—­a white mask of pain.  Or was this the real face, Clarice wondered, and that which he showed to the world the mask?