“I suppose your friends are very triumphant, Lady Beaumaris?” said Endymion.
“Yes; they naturally are very excited. I confess I am not myself.”
“But you ought to be,” said Endymion. “You will have an immense position. I should think Lord Beaumaris would have any office he chose, and yours will be the chief house of the party.”
“I do not know that Lord Beaumaris would care to have office, and I hardly think any office would suit him. As for myself, I am obliged to be ambitious, but I have no ambition, or rather I would say, I think I was happier when we all seemed to be on the same side.”
“Well, those were happy days,” said Endymion, “and these are happy days. And few things make me happier than to see Lady Beaumaris admired and appreciated by every one.”
“I wish you would not call me Lady Beaumaris. That may be, and indeed perhaps is, necessary in society, but when we are alone, I prefer being called by a name which once you always and kindly used.”
“I shall always love the name,” said Endymion, “and,” he added with some hesitation, “shall always love her who bears it.”
She involuntarily pressed his arm, though very slightly; and then in rather a hushed and hurried tone she said, “They were talking about you at dinner to-day. I fear this change of government, if there is to be one, will be injurious to you—losing your private secretaryship to Mr. Wilton, and perhaps other things?”
“Fortune of war,” said Endymion; “we must bear these haps. But the truth is, I think it is not unlikely that there may be a change in my life which may be incompatible with retaining my secretaryship under any circumstances.”
“You are not going to be married?” she said quickly.