"I never went. I stayed at home." "Oh! You are not ill, Cynthia?" "No. But I felt that I had been rather hard and cruel----" "You?" "Oh, yes, I can be." Cynthia was stamping down her envelope with an elaboration of care which almost suggested that it was never meant to be opened. "I was in this case. So I stayed at home and wrote a letter to make amends. I should very much like it to be posted to-night, Harry. The servants have all gone to bed. I wonder if you----" "Of course. You are afraid that you might change your mind about it in the morning." "Not at all," replied Cynthia with a laugh. Harry Rames walked over to the table. "Give it to me, Cynthia," he said; and at last Cynthia raised her head and rather shyly her eyes sought his face. At his first glance she stood up quickly and she did not give him her letter. Harry Rames was standing, his face white and drawn and harassed. He had been answering her vaguely, as though the words came from him by reflex action rather than through a comprehension of what she said. For a moment Cynthia was afraid to speak. The beating of her heart was painful. Then she laid her hand upon his arm. "Something has happened, Harry?" she faltered. "Something terrible," he replied, and walking to the fire he warmed his hands at the blaze like one smitten with a chill. "The debate collapsed? Your people didn't follow you into the lobby? Oh, Harry!" She went to his side. "No. That's not the trouble. We did better in the division than I had anticipated. Of course we had the labor party solid against us. But that we had reckoned on. On the other hand, some of the Irish members came along with us, and it had been expected that they would all abstain. No, we ran the government majority down to thirty-one. Devenish is shaken, I can tell you. He passed me after the division was over, without a word and white with passion. No, Cynthia, we did very well." He moved away from the fire and sat down in the chair at his writing-table. "I took all my people into the Division Lobby with me--except one." Cynthia put out a hand and steadied herself against the mantel-piece. "Except one?" She turned toward him, her face troubled, her eyes most wistful. "One failed you--one alone. Oh, Harry, it wasn't Colonel Challoner?" But though she asked the question, she did not need the answer. Her foreboding made her sure of it. "It was," replied Harry, and Cynthia turned again to the fire. A little sob, half-checked, burst from her. Then she tore the letter which she had been at such great pains to write, across and again across, and dropped the fragments into the fire. "The Challoners are no good," she said, in a voice curiously distinct and hard. "Don't say that, Cynthia," Harry Rames answered gently. "I do say it. I ought to know."