The reproach carried home to Billy. There had been one occasion when, over-night, his career had seemed not so imperative, and Doris had seemed very imperative indeed, demanding vows and protestations of high fervour, bearing only one legitimate interpretation. This happened long before Billy was K.C. or M.P., and when his income was still meagre. The morning had brought back counsel, and thoughts of the career. Billy had written a letter. The next time they met, she had taken occasion to observe that she always burnt letters, just as she never fell in love. The episode was not among Billy's proudest recollections. In telling Andy that Billy had always pulled himself up on the brink, the Nun had been guilty of just this one suppression. No tales out of school was always her motto. "If he does come to grief, it'll be over a woman," said Billy. He took a big puff. "That's the only thing worth coming to grief over, either," he added, looking into his companion's eyes. "What about the great cause I sang for?" she asked, serenely evasive. Sentiment in a motor-car at night really does not count. Billy laughed. "I do my best for my client." "But you believe it?" "Honestly, I believe we've got, say, seven points out of ten. So we ought to get the verdict." "I suppose that's honest enough. You leave the other side to put their three points?" "That oughtn't to be over-straining them," Billy opined. "Politics are rather curious. I might go to another meeting or two while I'm at Meriton; but I won't sing out of doors any more. Seymour doesn't approve of it." "You're really going to take rooms there?" "Yes, if Sally consents." She turned round to him. "Do you know what it is to see somebody asking for help?" "To me they always call it temporary assistance." "Yes. Well, I think I saw that to-night." She was silent a minute, then she gurgled. "And really they're all great fun, you know." "I look forward to our stay at Meriton with the gravest apprehension," said Billy Foot. The Nun looked at him, smiled, looked away, looked back once more. "Well, I shall have nothing else to do--in the way of recreation," she said. A long silence followed. Billy threw away the stump of his cigar. "Hang it, he's got the style, that fellow has!" "Who's got what style?" asked the Nun. Her voice sounded drowsy. "What the House likes--Andy." "What house?" drawled the Nun, terribly and happily sleepy. "Oh, you're a lively girl to drive home with in a motor at night!" Her eyes were closed, her lips ever so little parted. Half asleep, still she smiled. He made a trumpet of his hands and shouted into her ear. "The House of Commons, stupid!" "Don't tickle my ear," said the Nun. "And try if you can't be quiet!" Chapter XV. LOVE AND FEAR.