He turned into his hammock that night to lie long awake, dreaming of title pages, bindings, and press-cuttings, and calculating royalties. He was generous to himself in the matter of royalties, for so much money would be needed before--perhaps a play would be better, after all.... Very carefully, mindful of Hartington’s warning, he excluded Margaret from his consideration of these practical matters. But when at last he fell asleep and could no longer deceive himself, he dreamed of Margaret only. He dreamed that she kissed him, not that he kissed her; of a hundred tendernesses of word and deed that were outside his experience. They had a house in Westminster.... She looked down from behind the grille on to the floor of the House of Commons. V Margaret sat very still on the edge of her bed. The last word she had heard her father speak that evening came back to her like a tawdry tune. “The most steel-like mind I know.” That was Mr. Ordith’s. Steel-like: strong, supple, elastic, highly finished. He had, too, some of the splendour, even the poetry, of machinery: accurate, clean, with no uncertain edges, without misgiving. And he had power. He was a man to whom one might go confidently in any worldly difficulty. He would know what ought to be done, and would do it at once. He would see quite clearly one side of every question. In a way, she supposed, it was a compliment that one who had so wide a field of choice should have chosen her. Then she remembered how he had watched her. She saw again, as if they were watching her now, those large dark eyes, with their lower lids slightly raised and puckered. It gave one a sense of being a specimen, of being exposed. She shivered, stood up, walked to the window and closed it. The night was hot, so she opened the window again. “Anyhow,” she said, “_he_ doesn’t want help from anyone.” She blew out the candle and got into bed. There were so many people who wanted help--John among them; so many, that one might as well give up trying to help them. With Ordith it would be an easy passage in a comfortable ship that he would steer. The bedclothes were tucked into place with a little jerk. She pushed back a wisp of hair from her face as if she were angry with it. Then she shut her eyes--tight. No need to think. No need to worry yet. Sleep. But she opened her eyes again, and stared at the little white mountain of her pillow. CHAPTER XIV WASTE AND WONDER