Yet next second she reflected, and wished that her departure upon that cruiser was immediate, in order that she could escape the man who had so suddenly and unexpectedly returned into her life. "We shall go to Scotland after our return," he said. "Remember, we've got house parties on the eighth, seventeenth, and thirtieth of November." "And Christmas at Bracondale," she said. "I love spending it there." "Or perhaps on the Riviera? Why not? It is warmer," he suggested. "It may be, but I really think that nowadays, with the change in the English climate, it is just as warm in Torquay at Christmas as at Nice." "Yes," he replied with a smile. "Perhaps you are right, after all, Jean. If you want warmth and sunshine from December to April you must go to Egypt for it. People have begun to realise that it is often colder in Monte Carlo than in London. And yet it used not to be. I remember when I was a lad and went to Nice with the old governor each winter, we had real warm sunshine. Yes, the climate of the south of Europe has become colder, just as our English climate has become less severe in winter." And he ate his lobster salad and drank a glass of Chablis, thoroughly enjoying it after the hard mental strain of the morning. "I think I shall go for a run in the car this afternoon. I feel to want some fresh air. Will you come?" he asked. "I think not, dear," was her reply. "I have a little headache--the sun, I think--so I shall rest." "Very well. I'll have a drive alone." "Let's see," she exclaimed; "didn't you say you were going out to-night?" "Yes, dear, to Polivin's. There's a man-party this evening. You don't mind, do you? I promised him some time ago, and for political reasons I desire to be friendly. I shan't go till ten o'clock, and no doubt you will go to bed early." "By all means go, dear," she said, very sweetly. "I--I had forgotten the day." It was not often he left her alone of an evening when they were together during the recess. In the London season she was, as a political hostess, often compelled to go out alone, while he, too, had frequently to attend functions where it was impossible for her to be present. Sometimes, indeed, days and days passed and they only met at breakfast. Frequently, too, he was so engrossed in affairs of State that, though he was in the house, yet he was closeted hours and hours with Darnborough, with some high Foreign Office official, an ambassador, or a Cabinet Minister. That big, sombre room of his in the dark, gloomy London mansion was indeed a room of political secrets, just as was his private room at the Foreign Office. If those walls could but speak, what strange tales they might tell--tales of clever juggling with the Powers, of ingenious counter-plots against conspiracies ever arising to disturb the European peace, plots concocted by Britain's enemies across the seas, and the evolution of master strokes of foreign policy.