He avoided temptation, not because he desired to shun a torment of conscience or an accounting with his Almighty,—­to Whom he was devoted,—­but because he was satisfied with the woman he had married and would have sacrificed his ambitions rather than deliberately cause her unhappiness.  Had she been jealous and eloquent, it is more than probable that his haughty intolerance of restraint would have driven him to assert the pleasure of his will, but she was only amused at his occasional divagations, and had no thought of looking for meanings which might terrify her.  He was quite conscious of his good fortune and too well balanced to risk its loss.  So Mrs. Croix might be driven to rest her hopes on a trick of chance or a coup de theatre.  But she was a very clever woman; and she was not unlike Hamilton in a quite phenomenal precocity, and in the torrential nature of her passions.

Having a considerable knowledge of women and some of Mrs. Croix, he inferred that sooner or later she would cease to conceal the light of her endeavour.  Nevertheless, he was taken aback to receive one day a parcel, which, in the seclusion of his room, he found to contain a dainty scented handkerchief, the counterpart of the one hidden in the tree by the post road.

“Can she have put it there on purpose?” he thought.  “Did she take for granted that I would pause to admire the scenery, and that I would recognize the perfume of her violets?  Gad! she’s deeper than I thought if that be true.  The wider the berth, the better!”

He gave no sign, and, as he had expected, a note arrived in due course.  It ran:—­

     THE MAPLES, 8th July—­4 in the morning.

DEAR SIR:  I fear I am a woman of little purpose, for I intended to flit here like a swallow and as noiselessly flit again, accomplishing a political trifle for you meanwhile, of which you never should be the wiser.  But alas!  I am tormented by the idea that you never will know, that in this great crisis of your career, you think me indifferent when I understand so well your terrible anxieties, your need for stupendous exertion, and all that this convention means to this great country and to yourself; and heart and soul and brain, at the risk of my popularity,—­that I love, sir,—­and of a social position grudgingly acquired me, but which I demand by right of an inheritance of which the world knows less than of my elevation by Colonel Croix,—­at the risk of all, I am here and working for you.  Perhaps I love power.  Perhaps this country with its strange unimaginable future.  Perhaps I merely love politics, which you have glorified—­perhaps—­well, when we do meet, sir, you will avoid me no longer.  Do you find me lacking in pride?  Reflect how another woman would have pursued you with love-letters, persecuted you.  I have exercised a restraint that has left its mark, not only out of pride for myself, but out of a deep understanding of your multitude of anxieties and interests; nor should