“It will have to be a rich wife, I suppose,” said Molly, slowly; “that’s the worst of success, it imposes so many conditions.  I rather knew, from something in your manner, that you were drifting that way.”

Youghal said nothing in the way of contradiction; he gazed steadfastly at the aviary in front of him as though exotic pheasants were for the moment the most absorbing study in the world.  As a matter of fact, his mind was centred on the image of Elaine de Frey, with her clear untroubled eyes and her Leonardo da Vinci air.  He was wondering whether he was likely to fall into a frame of mind concerning her which would be in the least like falling in love.

“I shall mind horribly,” continued Molly, after a pause, “but, of course, I have always known that something of the sort would have to happen one of these days.  When a man goes into politics he can’t call his soul his own, and I suppose his heart becomes an impersonal possession in the same way.”

“Most people who know me would tell you that I haven’t got a heart,” said Youghal.

“I’ve often felt inclined to agree with them,” said Molly; “and then, now and again, I think you have a heart tucked away somewhere.”

“I hope I have,” said Youghal, “because I’m trying to break to you the fact that I think I’m falling in love with somebody.”

Molly McQuade turned sharply to look at her companion, who still fixed his gaze on the pheasant run in front of him.

“Don’t tell me you’re losing your head over somebody useless, someone without money,” she said; “I don’t think I could stand that.”

For the moment she feared that Courtenay’s selfishness might have taken an unexpected turn, in which ambition had given way to the fancy of the hour; he might be going to sacrifice his Parliamentary career for a life of stupid lounging in momentarily attractive company.  He quickly undeceived her.

“She’s got heaps of money.”

Molly gave a grunt of relief.  Her affection for Courtenay had produced the anxiety which underlay her first question; a natural jealousy prompted the next one.

“Is she young and pretty and all that sort of thing, or is she just a good sort with a sympathetic manner and nice eyes?  As a rule that’s the kind that goes with a lot of money.”

“Young and quite good-looking in her way, and a distinct style of her own.  Some people would call her beautiful.  As a political hostess I should think she’d be splendid.  I imagine I’m rather in love with her.”

“And is she in love with you?”

Youghal threw back his head with the slight assertive movement that Molly knew and liked.

“She’s a girl who I fancy would let judgment influence her a lot.  And without being stupidly conceited, I think I may say she might do worse than throw herself away on me.  I’m young and quite good-looking, and I’m making a name for myself in the House; she’ll be able to read all sorts of nice and horrid things about me in the papers at breakfast-time.  I can be brilliantly amusing at times, and I understand the value of silence; there is no fear that I shall ever degenerate into that fearsome thing—­a cheerful talkative husband.  For a girl with money and social ambitions I should think I was rather a good thing.”