He smiled grimly. “Ah, no, with me virtue is the act of an inquiring mind--to discover where it will lead me. I began with political crime--I was understood! I practise political virtue: it embarrasses the world, it fogs them, it seems original, because so unnecessary. Mine is the scientific life. Experiment in old substances gives new--well, say, new precipitations. But you are scientific, too. You have a laboratory, and have much to do--with retorts.” “No, you are thinking of my husband. The laboratory is his.” “But the retorts are yours.” “The precipitations are his.” “Ah, well, at least you help him to fuse the constituents!... But now, be quite confidential to an old man who has experimented too. Is your husband really an amateur scientist, or is he a scientific amateur? Is it a pose or a taste? I fiddled once--and wrote sonnets; one was a pose, the other a taste.” It was mere persiflage, but it was a jest which made an unintended wound. Hylda became conscious of a sudden sharp inquiry going on in her mind. There flashed into it the question, Does Eglington’s heart ever really throb for love of any object or any cause? Even in moments of greatest intimacy, soon after marriage, when he was most demonstrative towards her, he had seemed preoccupied, except when speaking about himself and what he meant to do. Then he made her heart throb in response to his confident, ardent words--concerning himself. But his own heart, did it throb? Or was it only his brain that throbbed? Suddenly, with an exclamation, she involuntarily laid a hand upon Windlehurst’s arm. She was looking down the room straight before her to a group of people towards which other groups were now converging, attracted by one who seemed to be a centre of interest. Presently the eager onlookers drew aside, and Lord Windlehurst observed moving up the room a figure he had never seen before. The new-comer was dressed in a grey and blue official dress, unrelieved save by silver braid at the collar and at the wrists. There was no decoration, but on the head was a red fez, which gave prominence to the white, broad forehead, with the dark hair waving away behind the ears. Lord Windlehurst held his eye-glass to his eye in interested scrutiny. “H’m,” he said, with lips pursed out, “a most notable figure, a most remarkable face! My dear, there’s a fortune in that face. It’s a national asset.” He saw the flush, the dumb amazement, the poignant look in Lady Eglington’s face, and registered it in his mind. “Poor thing,” he said to himself, “I wonder what it is all about--I wonder. I thought she had no unregulated moments. She gave promise of better things.” The Foreign Minister was bringing his guest towards them. The new-comer did not look at them till within a few steps of where they stood. Then his eyes met those of Lady Eglington. For an instant his steps were arrested. A swift light came into his face, softening its quiet austerity and strength. It was David.