“My dear Jack!” Her voice was delicately reproachful.

“Then you think that my—­my imagination has been playing me tricks?”

“My dear boy!  Nothing of the kind.  Come back to your place and tell me the whole tale?” She smiled again, and patted the couch invitingly.

But Chilcote’s balance had been upset.  For the first time he saw Lillian as one of the watchful, suspecting crowd before which he was constantly on guard.  Acting on the sensation, he moved suddenly towards the door.

“I—­I have an appointment at the House,” he said, quickly.  “I’ll look in another day when—­when I’m better company.  I know I’m a bear to-day.  My nerves, you know.”  He came back to the couch and took her hand; then he touched her cheek for an instant with his fingers.

“Good-bye,” he said.  “Take care of yourself—­and the kitten,” he added, with forced gayety, as he crossed the room.

That afternoon Chilcote’s nervous condition reached its height.  All day he had avoided the climax, but no evasion can be eternal, and this he realized as he sat in his place on the Opposition benches during the half-hour of wintry twilight that precedes the turning-on of the lights.  He realized it in that half-hour, but the application of the knowledge followed later, when the time came for him to question the government on some point relating to a proposed additional dry-dock at Talkley, the naval base.  Then for the first time he knew that the sufferings of the past months could have a visible as well as a hidden side—­could disorganize his daily routine as they had already demoralized his will and character.

The thing came upon him with extraordinary lack of preparation.  He sat through the twilight with tolerable calm, his nervousness showing only in the occasional lifting of his hand to his collar and the frequent changing of his position; but when the lights were turned on, and he leaned back in his seat with closed eyes, he became conscious of a curious impression—­a disturbing idea that through his closed lids he could see the faces on the opposite side of the House, see the rows of eyes, sleepy, interested, or vigilant.  Never before had the sensation presented itself, but, once set up, it ran through all his susceptibilities.  By an absurd freak of fancy those varying eyes seemed to pierce through his lids, almost through his eyeballs.  The cold perspiration that was his daily horror broke out on his forehead; and at the same moment Fraide, his leader, turned, leaned over the back of his seat, and touched his knee.

Chilcote started and opened his eyes.  “I—­I believe I was dozing,” he said, confusedly.

Fraide smiled his dry, kindly smile.  “A fatal admission for a member of the Opposition,” he said.  “But I was looking for you earlier in the day, Chilcote.  There is something behind this Persian affair.  I believe it to be a mere first move on Russia’s part.  You big trading people will find it worth watching.”