Diana’s color flashed.

“I would rather be in that old world with Mr. Ferrier than in the new with Mr. Barton!”

“What is the use of talking of preferences?  The world is what it is—­and will be what it will be.  Barton is our master—­Ferrier’s and mine.  The point is to come to terms, and make the best of it.”

“No!—­the point is—­to hold the gate!—­and die on the threshold, if need be.”

They had come to a stile.  Marsham had crossed it, and Diana mounted.  Her young form showed sharply against the west; he looked into her eyes, divided between laughter and feeling; she gave him her hand.  The man’s pulses leaped anew.  He was naturally of a cool and self-possessed temperament—­the life of the brain much stronger in him than the life of the senses.  But at that moment he recognized—­as perhaps, for the first time, the night before—­that Nature and youth had him at last in grip.  At the same time the remembrance of a walk over the same ground that he had taken in the autumn With Alicia Drake flashed, unwelcomed, into his mind.  It stirred a half-uneasy, half-laughing compunction.  He could not flatter himself—­yet—­that his cousin had forgotten it.

“What gate?—­and what threshold?” he asked Diana, as they moved on.  “If you mean the gate of power—­it is too late.  Democracy is in the citadel—­and has run up its own flag.  Or to take another metaphor—­the Whirlwind is in possession—­the only question is who shall ride it!”

Diana declared that the Socialists would ride it to the abyss—­with England on the crupper.

“Magnificent!” said Marsham, “but merely rhetorical.  Besides—­all that we ask, is that Ferrier should ride it.  Let him only try the beast—­and he will find it tame enough.”

“And if he won’t?—­”

“Ah, if he won’t—­” said Marsham, uncertainly, and paused.  In the growing darkness she could no longer see his face plainly.  But presently he resumed, more earnestly and simply.

“Don’t misunderstand me!  Ferrier is our chief—­my chief, above all—­and one does not even discuss whether one is loyal to him.  The party owes him an enormous debt.  As for myself—­” He drew a long breath, which was again a sigh.

Then with a change of manner, and in a lighter tone:  “I seem to have given myself away—­to an enemy!”

“Poor enemy!”

[Illustration:  “The man’s pulses leaped anew".]

He looked at her, half laughing, half anxious.

“Tell me!—­last night—­you thought me intolerant—­overbearing?”

“I disliked being beaten,” said Diana, candidly; “especially as it was only my ignorance that was beaten—­not my cause.”

“Shall we begin again?”

Through his gayety, however, a male satisfaction in victory pierced very plainly.  Diana winced a little.

“No, no!  I must go back to Captain Roughsedge first and get some new arguments!”

“Roughsedge!” he said, in surprise.  “Roughsedge?  He never carried an argument through in his life!”