“Yes! I’m a rebel!” she exclaimed. “My husband! Do you know, George, I’d clean forgotten all about him; absolutely. All that life is just like a dream, and I’m awake now. Even when you called me Mrs. Squire it did not recall him to me. Yes, I’m a rebel! But they don’t call you rebels, do they, when you’ve revolted successfully? Why didn’t you go to lunch?” He slipped his arm round her waist as he answered—— “I didn’t like rushing off from you, so I told an artistic lie. I don’t want to go to the dinner, but West’s a goodish fellow, and was wise enough to buy my pictures when no one else would. So I’m a bit in his debt.” “Who is he?” “He is _the_ West. ‘If you want to get the best—go West,’ you know.” “Oh, West’s Stores. He’s a millionaire, isn’t he?” “Awfully, horribly, disgustingly rich. But he doesn’t do as much harm with his money as most rich men. He hasn’t bought pictures wholesale, or built a gimcrack mansion in Park Lane. He gave tons of money once to a royal hobby and then refused a knighthood. When I congratulated him, he laughed and said it was good advertising. I believe he dabbles in politics; he’s a socialist—only rich men can afford to be—and talks about running the Empire on business lines. It’ll take a greater man than even he to make politicians capable of any business transaction, except buying votes with promissory notes. Chiefly notes blown on their own trumpets.” “There must be something fascinating about politics. I should love to rule men!” “Isn’t one enough?” he asked, holding her at arm’s length and looking into her eyes. “One like you—yes.” As she sat alone that night, lazily smoking by the fireside, the thought of Philip West was greatly in her mind. His strange, dark blue eyes had looked at her searchingly and she had felt that behind them was power. Had she any chance of knowing more of him? She was tiring already of the luxurious sameness of her life. Maddison was kind, thoughtful, attentive, and a sufficiently entertaining comrade, but she desired more than that. To rule one man did not satisfy her. The odds seemed against her meeting West again, especially as he was married. Maddison would doubtless tell her what the wife was like, and it was rather upon her than upon West himself that the success of Marian’s vague ambition depended. To win West in any circumstances would doubtless be difficult; to win him from his wife would be a triumph. Maddison came in late and threw himself full length upon the hearth-rug, a favorite position of his when tired. “Had a stupid evening?” she asked, sitting down beside him, and brushing the straggling hair from his forehead. “Fearful. I hate those big hotels at any time, but it was more than usually deadly to-night.” “I thought you liked Mr. West?” “Oh, he’d have been all right alone; but his wife is an empty chatterbox, insipidly pretty, and he adores her in a fatuous way. How men of sense can—well, I suppose reason doesn’t count in such matters.”