On the following morning, Maraton saw Elisabeth for the first time since his return from Manchester.  As he rang the bell of Mr. Foley’s residence in Downing Street, at a few minutes before the hour at which he had been bidden to luncheon, he found himself wondering with a leaven of resentment in his feelings why he had so persistently avoided the house during the last three weeks.  All his consultations with Mr. Foley, and they had been many, had taken place at the House of Commons.  He had refused endless invitations of a social character, and even when Mr. Foley had told him in plain words that his niece was anxious to see him, Maraton had postponed his call.  This luncheon party, however, was inevitable.  He was to meet a great lawyer who had a place in the Government, and two other Cabinet Ministers.  No excuse would have served his purpose.

The man who took his hat and coat had evidently received special instructions.

“Mr. Foley is engaged with his secretary, sir,” he said.  “A messenger has just arrived from abroad.  Will you come this way?”

He was taken to Elisabeth’s little room.  She was there waiting for him.  Directly she rose, he knew why he had kept away.

“Are you not a little ashamed of yourself, Mr. Maraton?” she asked, as the door was closed behind the departing servant.

“On the contrary,” he replied, “I am proud.”

She laughed at him, naturally at first, but with a note of self-consciousness following swiftly, as she realised the significance of his words.

“How foolish!  Really, I know it is only a subterfuge to avoid being scolded.  Sit down, won’t you?  You will have to wait at least ten minutes for luncheon.”

They looked at one another.  He took up a volume of poems from the small table by his side and put it down again.

“Well?” she asked.

“You have conquered,” he declared.  “You see, I came down to earth.”

“It isn’t possible for me,” she said simply, “to tell you how glad I am.  Don’t you yourself feel that you have done the right thing?”

“Since that night at Manchester,” he told her, “I have scarcely stopped to think.  Do you know that your strongest allies were Mr. Peter Dale and his men?”

She shrugged her shoulders.

“I disclaim my allies.  If we arrived at the same conclusion, we did so by differing lines of thought.  Let me tell you,” she went on, “there were two things for which I have prayed.  One was that you might start your fight exactly as you have done.  The other that you might find no official place amongst the Labour Members.  Of course, I can’t pretend to the practical experience of a real politician, but my uncle talks to me a great deal, and to me the truth seemed so clear.  It is the advanced Unionists who need you.  They are really the party from whom progress must come, because it is the middle class which has to be attacked, and it is amongst the middle classes that Liberalism has its stronghold.  If you once took your place among the Labour Members, you would be a Labour Member and nothing else.  People wouldn’t take what you said seriously.”