"You'd better not go any further, Mr. Harlan Thornton. My affection for an old man who has set his heart on your success has brought me into this affair, and I assure you I don't enjoy the situation. You are not asked to betray any one, or desert any high moral pinnacle, or do anything else that the moralists say all these fine things about without knowing what they mean half the time. You are reminded of this: that there's only one General Waymouth. There's a sudden big call for him because factions have got into a row with each other. Folks will rally around him for a little while--it's a sort of revival sentiment. But you are not a General Waymouth. He'll be excused by sentiment, you'll simply be branded as one of the common run of ramrodders who try to achieve the impossible with human nature--a disturbing element in State politics--and your career will be spoiled. Now I've delivered my message, and done what I promised your grandfather I'd do." She turned her horse, and started him back toward town. There was silence between them for a time. "So, if I weren't Thelismer Thornton's grandson you wouldn't take any interest in me at all?" he inquired, sourly. "A very impudent and unnecessary question, Mr. Harlan Thornton. I'm afraid your grandfather is right--you have stayed in the woods too long." Longer silence. He was more humble when he spoke again. "I don't want you to think I'm what I may seem to be, Miss Presson. But what is there I can do in politics, just now, different from what I'm doing? I have taken my side with the General. I propose to stay there, of course. But I do not want to have people think I'm a fool. And I haven't heard much else from any one since I started out." There was wistfulness in his voice. He suddenly felt drawn to her. He craved her counsel. It was the mastery of the woman, more worldly-wise. He was bewildered and ashamed. The image of Clare Kavanagh was not dimmed in his soul. She had been with him daily in his thoughts. He knew that he felt affection for her. It was tenderness, desire to protect, the real impulse of the man toward his mate. But the feeling was all unexpressed and incoherent. And yet Madeleine Presson, more than ever before, attracted him powerfully. She had the elements that he had never seen and experienced in womankind. Just at that moment she dominated, for his passion had betrayed him into a rather puerile outbreak.