And in these days, with what exquisite, yet tremulous skill and courage did she bring up the subject of that other labour they were to undertake together—­the life and letters of his father.  In the early dusk, when they had returned from their long rides, she contrived to draw Chiltern into his study.  The cheerfulness, the hopefulness, the delight with which she approached the task, the increasing enthusiasm she displayed for the character of the General as she read and sorted the letters and documents, and the traits of his she lovingly traced in Hugh, were not without their effect.  It was thus she fanned, ceaselessly and with a smile, and with an art the rarest women possess, the drooping flame.  And the flame responded.

How feverishly she worked, unknown to him, he never guessed; so carefully and unobtrusively planted her suggestions that they were born again in glory as his inspiration.  The mist had lifted a little, and she beheld the next stage beyond.  To reach that stage was to keep him intent on this work—­and—­after that, to publish!  Ah, if he would only have patience, or if she could keep him distracted through this winter and their night, she might save him.  Love such as hers can even summon genius to its aid, and she took fire herself at the thought of a book worthy of that love, of a book—­though signed by him that would redeem them, and bring a scoffing world to its knees in praise.  She spent hours in the big library preparing for Chiltern’s coming, with volumes in her lap and a note-book by her side.

One night, as they sat by the blazing logs in his study, which had been the General’s, Chiltern arose impulsively, opened the big safe in the corner, and took out a leather-bound book and laid it on her lap.  Honora stared at it:  it was marked:  Highlawns, Visitors’ Book.”

“It’s curious I never thought of it before,” he said, “but my father, had a habit of jotting down notes in it on important occasions.  It may be of some use to us Honora.”

She opened it at random and read:  “July 5, 1893, Picnic at Psalter’s Falls.  Temperature 71 at 9 A.M.  Bar. 30.  Weather clear.  Charles left for Washington, summons from President, in the midst of it.  Agatha and Victor again look at the Farrar property.  Hugh has a ducking.  P.S.  At dinner night Bessie announces her engagement to Cecil Grainger.  Present Sarah and George Grenfell, Agatha and Victor Strange, Gerald Shorter, Lord Kylie—­”

Honora looked up.  Hugh was at her shoulder, with his eyes on the page.

“Psalter’s Falls!” he exclaimed.  “How well I remember that day!  I was just home from my junior year at Harvard.”

“Who was ’Charles’?” inquired Honora.

“Senator Pendleton—­Bessie’s father.  Just after I jumped into the mill-pond the telegram came for him to go to Washington, and I drove him home in my wet clothes.  The old man had a terrible tongue, a whip-lash kind of humour, and he scored me for being a fool.  But he rather liked me, on the whole.  He told me if I’d only straighten out I could be anything, in reason.”