She was silent for a minute. The colour glowed brighter on her cheeks.
"I don't care to hear you say that," she told him, daintily haughty. "I was waiting here to congratulate you—yes, I hoped you'd come. I've nothing to do with anybody except the best candidate! They say you're that. I had my good wishes ready for you. Will you take them—without reserve?"
"I—I say things wrong," pleaded poor Andy. "I'll take anything you'll give."
Her face flashed into a smile. "Your wrong things are—well, one can forgive them. It's all settled then—and you're to be the M.P.?"
Andy was still apologetic. "They know what to do, I suppose. It seems curious. Wigram says it's a certainty too. They've all joined in to help—Lord Meriton, Mr. Belfield, and old Jack. I'm much too poor by myself, you know."
"The man who makes friends makes riches." She gave a light laugh. "May I be a little bit of your riches?"
Andy's answer was his own. "Well, I always remember that morning—the hunt and Curly."
"I'm still that to you?" she asked quickly, her colour rising yet.
He looked at her. "No, of course not, but I had a sort of idea that then you liked me a bit."
She looked across the room at him—Andy was a man who kept his distance. "You've been a refuge in time of trouble," she said. Her voice was soft, her eyes bright. "We won't talk of the old things any more, will we?"