Lucille had recovered herself. She stood before him, white but calm.
“Because,” she said, “I am a woman.”
“That means that you came without reason—on impulse?” he asked.
“I came,” she said, “because I heard that you were about to take a step which must separate us for ever.”
“And that,” he asked, “disturbed you?”
“Yes!”
“Come, we are drawing nearer together,” he said, a kindling light in his eyes. “Now answer me this. How much do you care if this eternal separation does come? Here am I on the threshold of action. Unless I change my mind within ten minutes I must throw in my lot with those whom you and your Order loathe and despise. There can be no half measures. I must be their leader, or I must vanish from the face of the political world. This I will do if you bid me. But the price must be yourself—wholly, without reservation—yourself, body and soul.”
“You care—as much as that?” she murmured.
“Ask me no questions, answer mine!” he cried fiercely. “You shall stay with me here—or in five minutes I leave on my campaign.”
She laughed musically.