As he crossed the threshold, Chilcote paused.  “Au revoir,” he corrected, with emphasis.

Until the last echo of his visitor’s steps had died away Loder stood with his hand on the door; then, closing it quietly, he turned and looked round the room.  For a considerable space he stood there as if weighing the merits of each object; then very slowly he moved to one of the book-shelves, drew out May’s Parliamentary Practice, and, carrying it to the desk, readjusted the lamp.

VI

All the next day Chilcote moved in a fever of excitement.  Hot with hope one moment, cold with fever the next, he rushed with restless energy into every task that presented itself—­only to drop it as speedily.  Twice during the morning he drove to the entrance of Clifford’s Inn, but each time his courage failed him and he returned to Grosvenor Square—­to learn that the expected message from Loder had not come.

It was a wearing condition of mind; but at worst it was scarcely more than an exaggeration of what his state had been for months, and made but little obvious difference in his bearing or manner.

In the afternoon he took his place in the House, but, though it was his first appearance since his failure of two days ago, he drew but small personal notice.  When he chose, his manner could repel advances with extreme effect, and of late men had been prone to draw away from him.

In one of the lobbies he encountered Fraide surrounded by a group of friends.  With his usual furtive haste he would have passed on; but, moving away from his party, the old man accosted him.  He was always courteously particular in his treatment of Chilcote, as the husband of his ward and godchild.

“Better, Chilcote?” he said, holding out his hand.

At the sound of the low, rather formal tones, so characteristic of the old statesman, a hundred memories rose to Chilcote’s mind, a hundred hours, distasteful in the living and unbearable in the recollection; and with them the new flash of hope, the new possibility of freedom.  In a sudden rush of confidence he turned to his leader.

“I believe I’ve found a remedy for my nerves,” he said.  “I —­I believe I’m going to be anew man.”  He laughed with a touch of excitement,

Fraide pressed his fingers kindly, “That is right,” he said.  “That is right.  I called at Grosvenor Square this morning, but Eve told me your illness of the other day was not serious.  She was very busy this morning—­she could only spare me a quarter of an hour.  She is indefatigable over the social side of your prospects.  Chilcote.  You owe her a large debt.  A popular wife means a great deal to a politician.”

The steady eyes of his companion disturbed Chilcote.

He drew away his hand.

“Eve is unique,” he said, vaguely.

Fraide smiled.  “That is right,” he said again.  “Admiration is too largely excluded from modern marriages.”  And with a courteous excuse he rejoined his friends.