“Not if Lilian can decide to break entirely with her relatives—­at all events for some years.  She must cease to draw her dividends, of course, and must announce to the Bristol people that she has determined on a step which makes it impossible for her to communicate with them henceforth.  I don’t think this will be a great sacrifice; her aunt and her sister have no great hold upon her affections.—­You must remember that her whole being is transformed since she last saw them.  She thinks differently on all and every subject.”

“You are assured of that?”

“Absolutely sure!  I have educated her.  I have freed her from superstitions and conventionalities.  To her, as to me, the lies we shall have to tell will be burdensome in the extreme; but we shall both forget in time.”

“That is exactly what you can never do!” said Glazzard, deliberately.  “You enter upon a lifetime of dissimulation.  Ten, twenty years hence you will have to act as careful a part as on the day when you and she first present yourselves in Polterham.”

“Oh, in a sense!” cried the other, impatiently.

“A very grave sense.—­Quarrier, why have you taken up this political idea?  What’s the good of it?”

He leaned forward and spoke with a low earnest voice.  Denzil could not instantly reply.

“Give it up!” pursued Glazzard.  “Take Lilian abroad, and live a life of quiet happiness.  Go on with your literary work”——­

“Nonsense!  I can’t draw back now, and I don’t wish to.”

“Would you—­if—­if I were willing to become the Liberal candidate?”

Denzil stared in astonishment.

“You?  Liberal candidate?”

“Yes, I!”

A peal of laughter rang through the room.  Glazzard had spoken as if with a great effort, his voice indistinct, his eyes furtive.  When the burst of merriment made answer to him, he fell back in his chair, crossed his legs, and set his features in a hard smile.

“You are joking, old fellow!” said Denzil.

“Yes, if you like.”

Quarrier wished to discuss the point, but the other kept an obstinate silence.

“I understand,” remarked Denzil, at length.  “You hit upon that thought out of kindness to me.  You don’t like my project, and you wished to save me from its dangers.  I understand.  Hearty thanks, but I have made up my mind.  I won’t stunt my life out of regard for an imbecile superstition.  The dangers are not great; and if they were, I should prefer to risk them.  You electioneering!  Ho, ho!”

Glazzard’s lips were close drawn, his eyes veiled by the drooping lids.  He had ceased to smoke, and when, a few minutes later, he threw away his cigar, it was all but squeezed flat by the two fingers which had seemed to hold it lightly.