Presently, Hallin, having put his puzzle safely into its box, ran off to his lessons. His mother looked after him, wistfully. And he had no sooner shut the door than Tressady bent forward. "You see--I thought it out!" "Yes indeed!" she said, "and to some purpose." But her voice was uncertain, and veiled like her eyes. Something in her reluctance to meet him, to talk it over, both alarmed and stung him. What was wrong? Had she any grievance against him? Had he so played his part as to offend her in any way? He searched his memory anxiously, his self-control, that he had been so sure of, failing him fast. "It was a strange finish to the session--wasn't it?" he said, looking at her. "We didn't think it would end so, when we first began to argue. What a queer game it all is! Well, my turn of it will have been exciting enough--though short. I can't say, however, that I shall much regret putting down the cards. I ought never to have taken a hand." She turned to him, in flushed dismay. "You _are_ thinking of leaving Parliament? But why--_why_ should you?" "Oh yes!--I am quite clear about that," he said deliberately. "It was not yesterday only. I am of no use in Parliament. And the only use it has been to me, is to show me--that--well!--that I have no party really, and no convictions. London has been a great mistake. I must get out of it--if only--lest my private life should drift on a rock and go to pieces. So far as I know it has brought me one joy only, one happiness only--to know you!" He turned very pale. The hand that was lying on her lap suddenly shook. She raised it hastily, took some flowers out of a jar of poppies and grass that was standing near, and nervously put them back again. Then she said gently, almost timidly: "I owe a great deal to your friendship. My mind--please believe it--is full of thanks. I lay awake last night, thinking of all the thousands of people that speech of yours would save--all the lives that hang upon it." "I never thought of them at all," he said abruptly. His heart seemed to be beating in his throat. She shrank a little. Evidently her presence of mind failed her, and he took advantage. "I never thought of them," he repeated, "or, at least, they weighed with me as nothing compared with another motive. As for the thing itself, by the time yesterday arrived I had given up my judgment to yours--I had simply come to think that what you wished was good. A force I no longer questioned drove me on to help you to your end. That was the whole secret of last night. The rest was only means to a goal." But he paused. He saw that she was trembling--that the tears were in her eyes.