“You misunderstand,” he said. “You mistake the position. I tell you my wife and I are nothing to each other. She goes her way; I go mine. We have our own friends, our own rooms. Marriage, actual marriage, doesn't enter the question. We meet occasionally at meals, and at other people's houses; sometimes we go out together for the sake of appearances; beyond that, nothing. If you take up my life, nobody in it will trouble you less than Eve—I can promise that.” He laughed unsteadily.
Loder's face remained unmoved.
“Even granting that,” he said, “the thing is still impossible.”
“Why?”
“There is the House. The position there would be untenable. A man is known there as he is known in his own club.” He drew away from Chilcote's touch.
“Very possibly. Very possibly.” Chilcote laughed quickly and excitedly. “But what club is without its eccentric member? I am glad you spoke of that. I am glad you raised that point. It was a long time ago that I hit upon a reputation for moods as a shield for—for other things, and, the more useful it has become, the more I have let it grow. I tell you you might go down to the House to-morrow and spend the whole day without speaking to, even nodding to, a single man, and as long as you were I to outward appearances no one would raise an eyebrow. In the same way you might vote in my place ask a question, make a speech if you wanted to—”
At the word speech Loder turned involuntarily For a fleeting second the coldness of his manner dropped and his face changed.
Chilcote, with his nervous quickness of perception, saw the alteration, and a new look crossed his own face.
“Why not?” he said, quickly. “You once had ambitions in that direction. Why not renew the ambitions?”
“And drop back from the mountains into the gutter?” Loder smiled and slowly shook his head.