She got to her feet now. "Oh, but believe me, believe me," she said, with sweet and sudden earnestness, "I am prouder than I can say that you will let me be a friend of yours! I like men who have done things, who do things. My grandfather did big, world-wide things, and—"
"Yes, I know; I met your grandfather once. He was a big man, big as can be. He had the world by the ear always."
"He spoiled me for the commonplace," she replied. "If I had lived in Pizarro's time, I'd have gone to Peru with him, the splendid robber."
He answered with the eager frankness and humour of a boy. "If you mean to be a friend of mine, there are those who will think that in one way you have fulfilled your ambition, for they say I've spoiled the Peruvians, too."
"I like you when you say things like that," she murmured. "If you said them often—"
She looked at him archly, and her eyes brimmed with amusement and excitement.
Suddenly he caught both her hands in his and his eyes burned. "Will you—"
He paused. His courage forsook him. Boldness had its limit. He feared a repulse which could never be overcome. "Will you, and all of you here, come down to my place in Wales next week?" he blundered out.
She was glad he had faltered. It was too bewildering. She dared not yet face the question she had seen he was about to ask. Power—yes, he could give her that; but power was the craving of an ambitious soul. There were other things. There was the desire of the heart, the longing which came with music and the whispering trees and the bright stars, the girlish dreams of ardent love and the garlands of youth and joy—and Ian Stafford.
Suddenly she drew herself together. She was conscious that the servant was entering the room with a letter.