"'You're twenty-two. Have you ever fallen in love?'"
Oddly, the face of Ste. Marie came before Miss Benham's eyes as if she had summoned it there. But she frowned a little and shook her head, saying—
"No, I can't say that I have. But that means nothing. There's plenty of time for that.
"And you know," she said after a pause, "you know I'm rather sure I could fall in love—pretty hard. I'm sure of that. Perhaps I have been waiting. Who knows?"
"Ay, who knows?" said David. He seemed all at once to lose interest in the subject, as old people often do without apparent reason, for he remained silent for a long time, puffing at the long black cigar or rolling it absently between his fingers. After awhile he laid it down in a metal dish which stood at his elbow and folded his lean hands before him over the invalid's table. He was still so long that at last his granddaughter thought he had fallen asleep, and she began to rise from her seat, taking care to make no noise, but at that the old man stirred, and put out his hand once more for the cigar.
"Was young Richard Hartley at your dinner party?" he asked. And she said—
"Yes. Oh, yes, he was there. He and M. Ste. Marie came together, I believe. They are very close friends."
"Another idler," growled old David. "The fellow's a man of parts—and a man of family. What's he idling about here for? Why isn't he in Parliament where he belongs?"
"Well," said the girl, "I should think it is because he is too much a man of family—as you put it. You see, he'll succeed his cousin, Lord Risdale, before very long, and then all his work would have been for nothing, because he'll have to take his seat in the Lords. Lord Risdale is unmarried, you know, and a hopeless invalid. He may die any day. I think I sympathise with poor Mr. Hartley. It would be a pity to build up a career for one's self in the lower House and then suddenly in the midst of it have to give it all up. The situation is rather paralysing to endeavour, isn't it?"