He indulged in another pensive fidget, then left her to judge. “He wants me to give up----” Yet again he faltered. “To give up what?” What could it be, she appeared to ask, that was barely nameable? He quite blushed to her indeed as he came to the point. “My fundamental views.” She was disappointed--she had waited for more. “Nothing but _them_?” He met her with astonishment. “Surely they’re quite enough, when one has unfortunately”--he rather ruefully smiled--“so very many!” She laughed aloud; this was frankly so odd a plea. “Well, _I’ve_ a neat collection too, but I’d ‘swap,’ as they say in the West, the whole set----!” She looked about the hall for something of equivalent price; after which she pointed, as it caught her eye, to the great cave of the fireplace. “I’d take _that_ set!” The young man scarcely followed. “The fire-irons?” “For the whole fundamental lot!” She gazed with real yearning at the antique group. “_They’re_ three hundred years old. Do you mean to tell me your wretched ‘views’----?” “Have anything like that age? No, thank God,” Clement Yule laughed, “my views--wretched as you please!--are quite in their prime! They’re a hungry little family that has got to be fed. They keep me awake at night.” “Then you must make up your sleep!” Her impatience grew with her interest. “Listen to _me_!” “That would scarce be the way!” he returned. But he added more sincerely: “You must surely see a fellow can’t chuck his politics.” “‘Chuck’ them----?” “Well--sacrifice them.” “I’d sacrifice mine,” she cried, “for that old fire-back with your arms!” He glanced at the object in question, but with such a want of intelligence that she visibly resented it. “See how it has stood!” “See how _I’ve_ stood!” he answered with spirit. “I’ve glowed with a hotter fire than anything in any chimney, and the warmth and light I diffuse have attracted no little attention. How can I consent to reduce them to the state of that desolate hearth?” His companion, freshly struck with the fine details of the desolation, had walked over to the chimney-corner, where, lost in her deeper impression, she lingered and observed. At last she turned away with her impatience controlled. “It’s magnificent!” “The fire-back?” “Everything--everywhere. I don’t understand your haggling.” He hesitated. “That’s because you’re ignorant.” Then seeing in the light of her eye that he had applied to her the word in the language she least liked, he hastened to attenuate. “I mean of what’s behind my reserves.” She was silent in a way that made their talk more of a discussion than if she had spoken. “What _is_ behind them?” she presently asked. “Why, my whole political history. Everything I’ve said, everything I’ve done. My scorching addresses and letters, reproduced in all the papers. I needn’t go into details, but I’m a pure, passionate, pledged Radical.” Mrs. Gracedew looked him full in the face. “Well, what if you _are_?”