“I should like,” she said, “to have you tell me about yourself—­about your life—­and your work.”

“It is told in a few words,” he answered.  “Somewhere, somehow, I have failed!  I could not adopt the Birmingham programme, I could not oppose it.  You know what isolation means politically?—­abuse from one side and contempt from the other.  That is what I am experiencing.  The working classes have some faith in me, I believe.  My work, such as it is, is solely for them.  I suppose the papers tell the truth when they say that mine is a ruined career—­only, you see, I am trying to do the best I can with the pieces.”

“Yes,” she said, softly, “that is something.  To do the best one can with the pieces.  We all might try to do that.”

He smiled.

“You, at least, have no need to consider such a thing,” he said.  “So far as any woman can be preeminent in politics you have succeeded in becoming so.  I saw that a lady’s paper a few weeks ago said that your influence outside the Cabinet was more powerful than any one man’s within it.”

“Yes,” she said, calmly, “the papers talk like that.  It gives their readers something to laugh at!  I wonder what you would say, my friend, if I told you that I, too, am engaged in that same thankless task.  I, too, am striving to do the best I can with the pieces.”

“You are not serious!” he protested.

“I am very serious indeed,” she declared.  “Shall I tell you more?  Shall I tell you when I made my mistake?”

“No!” he cried, hoarsely.

“But I shall,” she continued, suddenly gripping his arm.  “I meant to tell you.  I brought you here to tell you.  I made my mistake when I let Leslie Borrowdean take you back to Lord Redford just as we were entering the rose-garden at Bayleigh.  Do you remember?  I made my mistake when I suffered anything in this great world to come between me and a woman’s only chance of happiness!  I made my mistake when I was too proud to tell you that I loved you, and that nothing else in the world mattered.  There!  You tried me hard!  You know that!  But my mistake was none the less fatal.  I ought to have held fast by you, and I let you go.  And I shall suffer for it all my days.”

“You cared like that?” he cried.

“Worse!” she answered, turning her flushed face towards him.  “I care now.  Kiss me, Lawrence!”

He held her in his arms.  Time stood still until she stole away with an odd little laugh.

“There,” she said, “I have vindicated myself.  No one can ever call me a proud woman again.  And you know the truth!  I might have had you all to myself and I let you go.  Now I am going to do the best I can with the pieces.  The half of you I want belongs to your wife.  I must be content with the other half.  I suppose I may have that?”

“But your friends—­”