She heard it and leaned forward a little on her cushions, trying to read his face, studying every fine and classic outline of the strong head, the brow, the deep-set brilliant eye, the thin-lipped sensitive mouth, the clean shaven, strong jaw and chin. It was his face; how often she had dreamed about it and dreamed of it as turned to her with the glow of love and joy on it, but how pale it was, how hard, how resolute! “I knew the campaign was hotly contested, but I never doubted your success,” she said simply; “you know I always believed in you.” He turned sharply and looked at her. “What is the matter, Margaret? You are not yourself.” She smiled. “No,” she admitted, looking at him with an enigmatical expression, “no, I am not myself; the old Margaret is dead--and buried! Not even Mrs. Wingfield would know me; I burnt up my last red hat yesterday, William.” He answered her smile involuntarily, but his eyes remained grave, almost stern. He turned abruptly, holding out his hand. “Margaret,” he said, “I came--of course you know it--to ask you to be my wife.” She drew a long breath and was silent, her eyes on his face; she was wonderfully calm. “It seems to me that the sooner it is over the better for both of us,” he went on hurriedly; “there will, of course, be some talk; we must face it together.” Without answering him she bent over and picked up a half sheet of the morning newspaper from the floor, and after glancing at it, held it out to him. “There is an article there about you,” she said in a low voice; “it says you have refused the State Department; is that true?” He put the paper aside with a little impatience. “Of course it’s true,” he said; “I refused it three days ago.” She was again silent for an instant while she folded the paper into plaits. “Why did you refuse it?” she asked. Fox moved sharply and turned his face away, looking at the fire. “That does not concern us, Margaret,” he said gravely; “our marriage is the only question now; I--” She interrupted him. “Tell me,” she insisted, “it’s my right to know; this had something to do with me, with the prospect of--of your marrying Wicklow’s divorced wife, I know it! Tell me the truth.” “Of what avail?” he retorted with evident reluctance, his cheek red. “I have a right to know,” she reiterated. He smiled bitterly. “The situation is quite clear, isn’t it? I can’t take White’s place in the Cabinet and White’s wife; it would be monstrous.”