He groaned, and let his eyelids droop.

“It is possible that, at the general election, a Liberal constituency may invite me.  In that case, of course—­” He broke off with a weary wave of the band.  “But what’s the use of thinking about it?  I must look for work.  Do you know, I have thoughts of going to New Zealand.”

“Oh!  That’s nonsense!”

“Try to realise my position.”  He raised himself on his elbow.  “After my life of the last few months, will it be very enjoyable to become a subordinate, to work for wages, to sink into obscurity?  Does it seem to you natural?  Do you think I shall be able to bear it?”

He had begun to quiver with excitement.  As Iris kept silence, he rose to a sitting position, and continued more vehemently.

“Don’t you understand that death would be preferable, a thousand times?  Imagine me—­me at the beck and call of paltry every-day people!  Does it seem to you fitting that I should pay by such degradation for one or two trivial errors?  How I shall bear it, I don’t know; but bear it I must.  I keep reminding myself that I am not a free man.  If once I could pay my debt—­”

“Oh, don’t talk about that!” exclaimed Iris, on a note of distress.  “What do I care about the money?”

“No, but I care about my honour!” cried Lashmar.  “If I had won the election, all would have been different; my career would have begun.  Do you know what I should have done in that case?  I should have come to you, and have said:  ’I am a Member of Parliament.  It is to you that I owe this, more than to anyone else.  Will you do yet more for me?  Will you be my companion in the life upon which I am entering—­ share all my hopes—­help me to conquer?’—­That is what I meant to do.  But I am beaten, and I can only ask you to have patience with your miserable debtor.”

He let his face fall onto the head of the sofa, and shook with emotion.  There was a short silence, then Iris, her cheeks flushing, lightly touched his hair.  At once he looked up, gazed into her face.

“What!  You still believe in me?  Enough for that?”

“Yes,” replied Iris, her eyes down, and her bosom fluttering.  “Enough for that.”

“Ah!  But be careful—­think!” He looked at her with impressive sadness.  “Your friends will tell you that you are marrying a penniless adventurer.  Have you the courage to face all that kind of thing?”

“I know you better than my friends do,” replied Iris, taking in both her own the hand he held to her.  “My fear,” she added, again dropping her eyes and fluttering, “is that you will some day repent.”

“Never!  Never!  It would be the blackest ingratitude!”

He spoke so fervently that the freckled face became rosy with joy.  It was so near to his, that the man in him claimed warmer tribute, and Iris grew rosier still.

“Haven’t you always loved me a little?” she whispered.