And Josephine had listened to him, and had fully appreciated his contention that for such a man as he hoped to become, the choice of a wife was a matter of supreme importance. He had given her to understand that his ideal woman was one to whom her husband would apply for counsel when he needed it--one who would be her husband’s right hand in all matters. He had seen enough, he said, to make him aware of the fact that those men who were willing to relegate their wives to a purely domestic position were the men who were themselves eventually relegated by their party to a purely domestic position: they became the domestics of their party mainly, he believed, because they had been foolish enough--conceited enough, for there is no such fool as your conceited politician--to fancy that nowadays--nay, that at any time in the history of the country, the wife of the political leader should occupy a humbler place than the political leader himself. He had prevailed upon her, first, by stimulating her interest in himself, and secondly, by stimulating her ambition--he knew that she had ambition--and she had agreed, but only after considerable difficulty on his part, to accept his assurance that for some time at least, it would be well for their engagement to remain a secret, even from her father and mother. He had reason for knowing, he told her, that her father was antagonistic to him, on account of his alleged interference--“interference” was the word that Mr. West had freely employed at the time--with the constituency which he represented at a rather critical time. He knew, he said, that it would require time to clear the recollection of this unhappy incident from her father’s mind, so that to ask him for his consent to their engagement would be hopeless. Well, she had, after great demur, consented to give him her promise, and to preserve the matter a secret. And now he was sitting in his chair asking himself the question: “Who is the Other Man?” He was unable to answer the question; all that he could do was to keep his eyes open. But as this was the normal state of his eyes he knew that he was not subjecting them to any condition that threatened astygia. CHAPTER XIII While Mr. Ernest Clifton was thinking over the question, the answer to which he believed to be vital to his interests, Amber Severn was hanging on the arm of her father as they strolled together about their rose-garden under the cool stars of the summer night. She was keeping the promise she had made to Pierce Winwood and was telling him the story--it struck her as being curious--which Pierce Winwood had told to her.