had seen it leap to flame.  In congenial atmosphere, it would burn clear and steadfast.  It occurred to her what a delightful solution of her problem, if later on her father could be persuaded to leave Arthur in charge of the works, and come to live with her in London.  There was a fine block of flats near Chelsea Church with long views up and down the river.  How happy they could be there; the drawing-room in the Adams style with wine-coloured curtains!  He was a father any young woman could be proud to take about.  Unconsciously she gave his hand an impulsive squeeze.  They lunched at an old inn upon the moors; and the landlady, judging from his shy, attentive ways, had begun by addressing her as Madame.

“You grow wonderfully like your mother,” he told her that evening at dinner.  “There used to be something missing.  But I don’t feel that, now.”

She wrote to Phillips to meet her, if possible, at Euston.  There were things she wanted to talk to him about.  There was the question whether she should go on writing for Carleton, or break with him at once.  Also one or two points that were worrying her in connection with tariff reform.  He was waiting for her on the platform.  It appeared he, too, had much to say.  He wanted her advice concerning his next speech.  He had not dined and suggested supper.  They could not walk about the streets.  Likely enough, it was only her imagination, but it seemed to her that people in the restaurant had recognized him, and were whispering to one another:  he was bound to be well known.  Likewise her own appearance, she felt, was against them as regarded their desire to avoid observation.  She would have to take to those mousey colours that did not suit her, and wear a veil.  She hated the idea of a veil.  It came from the East and belonged there.  Besides, what would be the use?  Unless he wore one too.  “Who is the veiled woman that Phillips goes about with?” That is what they would ask.  It was going to be very awkward, the whole thing.  Viewed from the distance, it had looked quite fine.  “Dedicating herself to the service of Humanity” was how it had presented itself to her in the garden at Meudon, the twinkling labyrinth of Paris at her feet, its sordid by-ways hidden beneath its myriad lights.  She had not bargained for the dedication involving the loss of her self-respect.

They did not talk as much as they had thought they would.  He was not very helpful on the Carleton question.  There was so much to be said both for and against.  It might be better to wait and see how circumstances shaped themselves.  She thought his speech excellent.  It was difficult to discover any argument against it.

He seemed to be more interested in looking at her when he thought she was not noticing.  That little faint vague fear came back to her and stayed with her, but brought no quickening of her pulse.  It was a fear of something ugly.  She had the feeling they were both acting, that everything depended upon their not forgetting their parts.  In handing things to one another, they were both of them so careful that their hands should not meet and touch.