"I didn't know Premiers danced," she said, and perhaps her glance conveyed a shy invitation to Medland.
"If I ask you now, I shall have another secession," he replied, smiling at Coxon. "Besides, I can't dance."
"You must sit out with me then," she said, growing bolder. "You don't mind, do you, Mr. Coxon?"
Coxon and Dick were left to console one another, and Alicia sat down with Medland. At first he was silent, watching his daughter. When the quadrille ended, he rose and said,
"Come into the garden."
"But my partner for the next won't be able to find me."
"Well, supposing he can't?" said the Premier.
"It makes one very conceited to be a Premier," thought Alicia, but she went into the garden.
Then began what she declared to herself was the most interesting conversation to which she had ever listened. From silence, the Premier passed to a remark here and there, thence to a conversation, thence, as the evening went on and they strolled further and further away from the house, into a monologue on his life and aims and hopes. Young man after young man sought her in vain, or, finding the pair, feared to intrude and retired in discontent, while Medland strove to draw the picture of that far-off society whose bringing-near was his goal in public life. She wondered if he talked to other women like that: and she found herself hoping that he did not. His gaunt form seemed to fill and his sunk eyes to spring out to meet the light, as he painted for her the time when his dreams should have clothed themselves with the reality which his persuasive imagination almost gave them now.