She was puzzled at her own state of mind.

Dinner was almost gay.  Perhaps the gayety was somewhat forced, with Pink keeping his eyes from Lily’s face, and Howard Cardew relapsing now and then into abstracted silence.  Because of the men who served, the conversation was carefully general.  It was only in the library later, the men gathered together over their cigars, that the real reason for Willy Cameron’s summons was disclosed.

Howard Cardew was about to withdraw from the contest.  “I’m late in coming to this decision,” he said.  “Perhaps too late.  But after a careful canvas of the situation, I find you are right, Cameron.  Unless I withdraw, Akers”—­he found a difficulty in speaking the name—­“will be elected.  At least it looks that way.”

“And if he is,” old Anthony put in, “he’ll turn all the devils of hell loose on us.”

It was late; very late.  The Cardews stood ready to flood the papers with announcements of Howard’s withdrawal, and urging his supporters to vote for Hendricks, but the time was short.  Howard had asked his campaign managers to meet there that night, and also Hendricks and one or two of his men, but personally he felt doubtful.

And, as it happened, the meeting developed more enthusiasm than optimism.  Cardew’s withdrawal would be made the most of by the opposition.  They would play it up as the end of the old regime, the beginning of new and better things.

Before midnight the conference broke up, to catch the morning editions.  Willy Cameron, detained behind the others, saw Lily in the drawing-room alone as he passed the door, and hesitated.

“I have been waiting for you, Willy,” she said.

But when he went in she seemed to have nothing to say.  She sat in a low chair, in a soft dark dress which emphasized her paleness.  To Willy Cameron she had never seemed more beautiful, or more remote.

“Do you remember how you used to whistle ‘The Long, Long Trail,’ Willy?” she said at last.  “All evening I have been sitting here thinking what a long trail we have both traveled since then.”

“A long, hard trail,” he assented.

“Only you have gone up, Willy.  And I have gone down, into the valley.  I wish”—­she smiled faintly—­“I wish you would look down from your peak now and then.  You never come to see me.”

“I didn’t know you wanted me,” he said bluntly.

“Why shouldn’t I want to see you?”

“I couldn’t help reminding you of things.”

“But I never forget them, anyhow.  Sometimes I almost go mad, remembering.  It isn’t quite as selfish as it sounds.  I’ve hurt them all so.  Willy, do you mind telling me about the girl who opened that letter and sent you help?”

“About Edith Boyd?  I’d like to tell you, Lily.  Her mother is dead, and she lost her child.  She is in the Memorial Hospital.”

“Then she has no one but you?”