"And what is the true God, pray?"
"The one whose angel and minister you have always been, Amber"—he lowered his voice reverently—"Love."
"Love!" Her voice was bitter. "Any bench in the Park, any alley in Highmead, swarms with Love." 'Twas as if Cæsar had skipped from his imperial chariot to a sociable.
All her childish passion for directing the life of the household, all her girlish relish in keeping lovers in leading strings, all that unconscious love of Power which—inversely—had attracted her to Walter Bassett, and which had found so delightful a scope in her political activities, leapt—now that her Salon was threatened with extinction—into agonised consciousness of itself.
Through this brilliant husband of hers, she had touched the destinies of England, pulled the strings of Empire. Oh, the intoxication of the fight—the fight for which she had seconded and sponged him! Oh, the rapture of intriguing against his enemies—himself included—the feminine triumph of managing Goodman Waverer or Badman Badgerer!
And now—oh, she could no longer control her sobs!
He tried to soothe her, to caress her, but she repulsed him.
"Go to your yacht—to your miserable shimmering waters. I shall spend my honeymoon here alone.... You discovered I was Irish."