“If you are to suffer in this way, little girl, I shall repent sorely that ever I went in for politics.”

“How absurd of me!  I can’t think why I behave so ridiculously!”

But still she sobbed, resting her head against him.

“I have an idea,” he said at length, rendered clairvoyant by his affection, “that after next week you will feel much easier in your mind.”

“After next week?”

“Yes; when Glazzard is married and gone away.”

She would not confess that he was right, but her denials strengthened his surmise.

“I can perfectly understand it, Lily.  It certainly was unfortunate; and if it had been any one but Glazzard, I might myself have been wishing the man away.  But you know as well as I do that Glazzard would not breathe a syllable.”

“Not even to his wife?” she whispered.

“Not even to her!  I assure you”—­he smiled—­“men have no difficulty in keeping important secrets, Samson notwithstanding.  Glazzard would think himself for ever dishonoured.  But in a week’s time they will be gone; and I shouldn’t wonder if they remain abroad for years.  So brighten up, dearest dear, and leave Sam alone; he’s a cynical old fellow, past hope of mending his ways.  See more of Molly; she does you good.  And, by-the-bye, it’s time you called on the Catesbys.  They will always be very glad to see you.”

This family of Catesby was one of the few really distinguished in the neighbourhood.  Colonel Catesby, a long-retired warrior, did not mingle much with local society, but with his wife and daughter he had appeared at Denzil’s first political dinner; they all “took to” their hostess, and had since manifested this liking in sundry pleasant ways.

Indeed, Lilian was become a social success—­that is to say, with people who were at all capable of appreciating her.  Herein, as in other things, she had agreeably surprised Denzil.  He had resigned himself to seeing her remain a loving, intelligent, but very unambitious woman; of a sudden she proved equal to all the social claims connected with his candidature—­unless the efforts, greater than appeared, were undermining her health.  Having learned to trust herself in conversation, she talked with a delightful blending of seriousness and gentle merriment.  Her culture declared itself in every thought; there was much within the ordinary knowledge of people trained to the world that she did not know, but the simplicity resulting from this could never be confused with want of education or of tact.  When the Catesbys made it evident that they approved her, Quarrier rejoiced exceedingly; he was flattered in his deepest sensibilities, and felt that henceforth nothing essential would be wanting to his happiness—­whether Polterham returned him or not.