Facing the mirror of the days to come, she tried it on.  It was going to hurt.  There was no doubt of that.  She saw the fatuous, approving face of the eternal Mrs. Phillips, thrust ever between them, against the background of that hideous furniture, of those bilious wall papers—­the loneliness that would ever walk with her, sit down beside her in the crowded restaurant, steal up the staircase with her, creep step by step with her from room to room—­the ever unsatisfied yearning for a tender word, a kindly touch.  Yes, it was going to hurt.

Poor Robert!  It would be hard on him, too.  She could not help feeling consolation in the thought that he also would be wearing that invisible crown.

She must write to him.  The sooner it was done, the better.  Half a dozen contradictory moods passed over her during the composing of that letter; but to her they seemed but the unfolding of a single thought.  On one page it might have been his mother writing to him; an experienced, sagacious lady; quite aware, in spite of her affection for him, of his faults and weaknesses; solicitous that he should avoid the dangers of an embarrassing entanglement; his happiness being the only consideration of importance.  On others it might have been a queen laying her immutable commands upon some loyal subject, sworn to her service.  Part of it might have been written by a laughing philosopher who had learnt the folly of taking life too seriously, knowing that all things pass:  that the tears of to-day will be remembered with a smile.  And a part of it was the unconsidered language of a loving woman.  And those were the pages that he kissed.

His letter in answer was much shorter.  Of course he would obey her wishes.  He had been selfish, thinking only of himself.  As for his political career, he did not see how that was going to suffer by his being occasionally seen in company with one of the most brilliantly intellectual women in London, known to share his views.  And he didn’t care if it did.  But inasmuch as she valued it, all things should be sacrificed to it.  It was hers to do what she would with.  It was the only thing he had to offer her.

Their meetings became confined, as before, to the little house in North Street.  But it really seemed as if the gods, appeased by their submission, had decided to be kind.  Hilda was home for the holidays; and her piercing eyes took in the situation at a flash.  She appeared to have returned with a new-born and exacting affection for her mother, that astonished almost as much as it delighted the poor lady.  Feeling sudden desire for a walk or a bus ride, or to be taken to an entertainment, no one was of any use to Hilda but her mother.  Daddy had his silly politics to think and talk about.  He must worry them out alone; or with the assistance of Miss Allway.  That was what she was there for.  Mrs. Phillips, torn between her sense of duty and fear of losing this new happiness, would yield to the child’s coaxing.  Often they would be left alone to discuss the nation’s needs uninterrupted.  Conscientiously they would apply themselves to the task.  Always to find that, sooner or later, they were looking at one another, in silence.