"Ah, you feel it. You are like a bird with one wing trying to fly. Forgive me, but the best houses in London are closed to you; you are a paid Labour Member of Parliament, and thus you represent only a class—the least influential class. You are shut out from many of the delights of life. Channels of usefulness and power are closed to you. Oh, I know it is great to be a Labour Member, but it is greater to be independent of all classes—to live for your ideals, to have enough money to be independent of the world, to hold up your head as an equal among the greatest and highest."
"You diagnose a disease," said Dick sadly, "but you do not tell me the remedy."
"Don't I?" and Dick felt the glamour of her presence. "Doesn't your own heart tell you that, my friend?"
Dick felt a wild beating of his heart, but he did not reply. There was a weight upon his tongue.
A minute later she was the great lady again—far removed from him.
He left the house dazzled, almost in love with her in spite of Beatrice Stanmore, and largely under her influence. He had been gone only a few minutes when a servant brought a card.
"Count Romanoff," she read. "Show him here," she added, and there was a look in her eyes that was difficult to understand.