Lucille was indifferent.

“At any rate,” she said, “I shall not see him.  I have quite made up my mind about that.”

“And why not, Countess?” a deep voice asked from the threshold.  “What have I done?  May I not at least know my fault?”

Lady Carey rose and moved towards the door.

“You shall have it out between yourselves,” she declared, looking up, and nodding at Brott as she passed.  “Don’t fight!”

“Muriel!”

The cry was imperative, but Lady Carey had gone.  Mr. Brott closed the door behind him and confronted Lucille.  A brilliant spot of colour flared in her pale cheeks.

“But this is a trap!” she exclaimed.  “Who sent for you?  Why did you come?”

He looked at her in surprise.

“Lucille!”

His eyes were full of passionate remonstrance.  She looked nervously from him towards the door.  He intercepted her glance.

“What have I done?” he asked fiercely.  “What have I failed to do?  Why do you look as though I had forced myself upon you?  Haven’t I the right?  Don’t you wish to see me?”

In Brott’s face and tone was all the passionate strenuousness of a great crisis.  Lucille felt suddenly helpless before the directness of his gaze, his storm of questions.  In all their former intercourse it had been she who by virtue of her sex and his blind love for her had kept the upper hand.  And now the position was changed.  All sorts of feeble explanations, of appeals to him, occurred to her dimly, only to be rejected by reason of their ridiculous inadequacy.  She was silent-abjectly silent.

He came a little closer to her, and the strength of the man was manifest in his intense self-restraint.  His words were measured, his tone quiet.  Yet both somehow gave evidence of the smouldering fires beneath.

“Lucille,” he said, “I find you hard to understand to-day.  You have made me your slave, you came once more into my life at its most critical moment, and for your sake I have betrayed a great trust.  My conscience, my faith, and although that counts for little, my political career, were in the balance against my love for you.  You know which conquered.  At your bidding I have made myself the jest of every man who buys the halfpenny paper and calls himself a politician.  My friends heap abuse upon me, my enemies derision.  I cannot hold my position in this new Cabinet.  I had gone too far for compromise.  I wonder if you quite understand what has happened?”

“Oh, I have heard too much,” she cried.  “Spare me the rest.”

He continued as though he had not heard her.

“Men who have been my intimate associates for many years, and whose friendship was dear to me, cross the road to avoid:  meeting me, day by day I am besieged with visitors and letters from the suffering people to whom my word had been pledged, imploring me for some explanation, for one word of denial.  Life has become a hell for me, a pestilent, militant hell!  Yet, Lucille, unless you break faith with me I make no complaint.  I am content.”