"I came into the House as a Labor member," he said, "and unless something unforeseen happens, a Labor member I must remain. Besides, I hate to think of myself as a party man. The rank and file remind me most unpleasantly of a flock of geese. They must follow their leaders blindly; their personal opinions go for nothing." Her eyelids quivered--the merest flicker of a smile passed across her face. "But how nice not to be obliged to have personal opinions! Think what a delightfully restful state." "It would not suit me," he declared bluntly. She laughed, very softly and very musically. There was a short silence. A breath of the west wind bent the lilac boughs toward them, a wave of delicate perfume floated in the air. Strone half closed his eyes. Their thoughts went backward together. "Tell me," she murmured, "how does this life compare to you with the old days at Bangdon Wood? You were a man of contemplation--you have become a man of action. Go on, my friend. There is a kingdom before you." He turned a weary face upon her. "These are the things," he said, "which I have told myself. But, Lady Malingcourt, life has another side, and to go through life without once glancing upon it----" "Ah, is it worth while?" she interrupted. "What is greater than power?" "It is a joy for heroes, but even heroes are sometimes men." They were silent for a moment. From beyond the square came the tinkle of bells, the low roar of traffic surging westward. Near at hand was the rustling of the evening wind in the large-leafed lime trees, the faintly drawn-out music of a violin from one of the adjoining houses. "Tell me," she asked suddenly--"about your wife. Does she like London? Is she interested in your work?" A curious restraint--almost a nervousness--fell upon them both. "I do not think that she is," he answered. "London does not suit her very well. She is not quick at making acquaintances." He did not allude to her again, nor did she. The vision of Milly rose up before him as he had seen her last. He sat looking out in the twilight with stern, set face. Lady Malingcourt watched him. Perhaps they both saw in the soft darkness some faint picture of those wonderful things which might in time have come to pass between them. For when Lady Malingcourt spoke again there was a sweetness in her voice which was strange to him. She leaned forward eagerly. The cloud of weariness had passed from her face. Her white, bejeweled fingers touched his coat sleeve. "My friend," she said, "you are making a rare but a fatal mistake. You undervalue yourself. Do not shake your head, for I know what I am talking about. Lord Sydenham has spoken to me; there have been others, too. There are many people who are watching you. You must not disappoint them." He gazed into her intent face and sighed.