There was one Friday evening toward the end of June when she was impelled to approach the dangerous subject of her own accord. She and Harry had been dining with the Prime-Minister in Downing Street. All that week the House had been sitting into the small hours. The Prime-Minister himself had taken her aside and given her a warning. They returned home soon after eleven, and as they sat over a final cigarette in Harry's study, Cynthia could not shut her eyes to his restlessness, the nervous flickering of his fingers, the unsteady intonations of his voice.
"Aren't you doing too much, Harry?" she asked.
"Not more than you, Cynthia," he replied as he poured himself out a whiskey and soda.
"Much more. And women who are doing what they want to do can stand a great deal more than men who are not."
Harry looked across at her quickly.
"But, of course, I am doing just what I have always planned to do, just what you are helping me to do--just what I sought your help to enable me to do."
"Sure?"
"Of course."
Cynthia had crossed the room to his side and was standing with a hand upon his shoulder. She was in a mood of indecision and the touch of her hand revealed her mood to Rames. A change came over him. She felt a tremor of his body, a sudden quickening of the muscles beneath her hand. He became intensely expectant. She could read the question in his mind. Was she by some wonderful inspiration going to release him from the torment of his soul? But the mere sensation of his movement was enough for Cynthia. She withdrew her hand. She repeated unconsciously words which he had once used to her.
"After all we get some fun out of it, don't we, Harry?" she said; and Harry rose quickly from his chair.