“The price we pay is the reign of social justice in theory, and in practice the rule of the Gideon Vetches of history.  Oh, I admit that it may all work out in the end!  That is my political creed, you know—­that everything and anything may work out in the end.  If I stood simply for tradition without progress, I should long ago have been driven to the wall.”

“I feel as you do,” she said after a moment, “and yet I am curious to see what will become of our experimental Governor.”

“And I also.  The man may have executive ability, and it is possible that he may give us an efficient administration.  But, of course, it is merely a stepping-stone for his inordinate greed for power.  His vanity has been inflamed by success, and he sees the Senate, it may be even the Presidency, ahead of him.”

Though she smiled there was a note of earnestness in her voice.  “Well, why not?  There was once a rail splitter—­”

“Oh, I know.  But the rail splitter was born a president; and it is a far cry to a circus rider who was not born even a gentleman.”

“Perhaps.  Yet, right or wrong, hasn’t the war stretched a little the safety net of our democracy?  Isn’t it just possible to-day that we might find a circus rider who was born a president too?” Then before he could toss back her questions she asked quickly, “After all, he didn’t actually ride, did he?”

Benham shrugged his shoulders, a gesture he had acquired in France.  “I’ve heard so, but I don’t know.  They tell queer tales of his early years.  That was before the golden age of the movies, you see; and I suspect that the movies rather than the war introduced the mock heroic into politics.”

He was still standing at her side, looking down into her upraised eyes, which made him think of brown velvet.  For a long pause after speaking he remained silent, drinking in the fragrance of the room, the whispering of the flames, and the dreamy loveliness of Corinna’s expression.  A change had come over her face.  In the flushed light she looked young and elusive; and it seemed to him that, beneath the glowing tissue of flesh, he gazed upon an indestructible beauty of spirit.

“Do you know what I was thinking?” he asked presently.  “I was thinking that I’d known all this before—­that I’d been waiting for it always—­the firelight on these splendid colours, the smell of the roses, the sound of the flames, and the way you looked up at me with that memory in your eyes.  ’I have been here before’.”

A quiver as faint as the shadow of a flower crossed her face.  “Yes, I remember.  It is an odd feeling.  I suppose every one has felt it at times—­only each one of us likes to think that he is the particular instance.”

“It is trite, I know,” he said with a smile, “but feeling is never very original, is it?  Only thought is new.”

“But I would rather have feeling, wouldn’t you?” she asked in a low voice, and sat waiting in a lovely attitude, prepared without and within, for the moment that was approaching.  There was no excitement in such things now, she had had too much experience; but there was an unending interest.