“No, no,” I interrupted him hurriedly, “not that. But I happen to know that Gurnard is meditating ... is going to separate from you in public matters.” An expression of dismay spread over his face.
“My dear fellow,” he began.
“Oh, I’m not drunk,” I said bitterly, “but I’ve been behind the scenes—for a long time. And I could not ... couldn’t let the thing go on without a word.”
He stopped in the road and looked at me.
“Yes, yes,” he said, “I daresay.... But what does it lead to?... Even if I could listen to you—I can’t go behind the scenes. Mr. Gurnard may differ from me in points, but don’t you see?...” He had walked on slowly, but he came to a halt again. “We had better put these matters out of our minds. Of course you are not drunk; but one is tied down in these matters....”
He spoke very gently, as if he did not wish to offend me by this closing of the door. He seemed suddenly to grow very old and very gray. There was a stile in the dusty hedge-row, and he walked toward it, meditating. In a moment he looked back at me. “I had forgotten,” he said; “I meant to suggest that we should wait here—I am a little tired.” He perched himself on the top bar and became lost in the inspection of the cord of his glasses. I went toward him.
“I knew,” I said, “that you could not listen to ... to the sort of thing. But there were reasons. I felt forced. You will forgive me.” He looked up at me, starting as if he had forgotten my presence.
“Yes, yes,” he said, “I have a certain—I can’t think of the right word—say respect—for your judgment and—and motives ... But you see, there are, for instance, my colleagues. I couldn’t go to them ...” He lost the thread of his idea.
“To tell the truth,” I said, with a sudden impulse for candour, “it isn’t the political aspect of the matter, but the personal. I spoke because it was just possible that I might be of service to you—personally—and because I would like you ... to make a good fight for it.” I had borrowed her own words.
He looked up at me and smiled. “Thank you,” he said. “I believe you think it’s a losing game,” he added, with a touch of gray humour that was like a genial hour of sunlight on a wintry day. I did not answer. A little way down the road Miss Churchill’s carriage whirled into sight, sparkling in the sunlight, and sending up an attendant cloud of dust that melted like smoke through the dog-roses of the leeward hedge.