He noticed this when her visitors—they were feeble folk, the head of a department in the Museum and his sister—had left the house.
“It is delightful to be face to face with you once more,” he said. “I seem to hear the organ-music of the Atlantic now that I am beside you again.”
She gave a little laugh—did he detect something of scorn in its ring?—as she said, “Oh, no; it is the sound of the greater ocean that we have about us here. It is the tide of the affairs of men that flows around us.”
No, her laugh could have had nothing of scorn about it.
“I cannot think of you as borne about on this full tide,” said he. “I see you with your feet among the purple heather—I wonder if there was a sprig of white about it—along the shores of the Irish lough. I see you in the midst of a flood of sunset-light flowing from the west, making the green one red.”
She saw that sunset. He was describing the sunset that had been witnessed from the deck of the yacht returning from the seal-hunt beyond the headlands. Did he know why she got up suddenly from her seat and pretended to snuff one of the candles on the mantelshelf? Did he know how close the tears were to her eyes as she gave another little laugh?
“So long as you do not associate me with Mr. Durdan’s views on the Irish question, I shall be quite satisfied,” said she. “Poor Mr. Durdan! How he saw a bearing upon the Irish question in all the phenomena of Nature! The sunset—the sea—the clouds—all had more or less to do with the Irish question.”
“And he was not altogether wrong,” said Edmund. “Mr. Durdan is a man of scrupulous inaccuracy, as a rule, but he sometimes stumbles across a truth. The sea and sky are eternal, and the Irish question——”
“Is the rock upon which the Government is to be wrecked, I believe,” said she. “Oh, yes; Mr. Durdan confided in me that the days of the Government are numbered.”
“He became confidential on that topic to a considerable number of persons,” said Edmund.