“Better, Chilcote?” he said, holding out his hand.
At the sound of the low, rather formal tones, so characteristic of the old statesman, a hundred memories rose to Chilcote's mind, a hundred hours, distasteful in the living and unbearable in the recollection; and with them the new flash of hope, the new possibility of freedom. In a sudden rush of confidence he turned to his leader.
“I believe I've found a remedy for my nerves,” he said. “I—I believe I'm going to be anew man.” He laughed with a touch of excitement,
Fraide pressed his fingers kindly, “That is right,” he said. “That is right. I called at Grosvenor Square this morning, but Eve told me your illness of the other day was not serious. She was very busy this morning—she could only spare me a quarter of an hour. She is indefatigable over the social side of your prospects. Chilcote. You owe her a large debt. A popular wife means a great deal to a politician.”
The steady eyes of his companion disturbed Chilcote.
He drew away his hand.
“Eve is unique,” he said, vaguely.
Fraide smiled. “That is right,” he said again. “Admiration is too largely excluded from modern marriages.” And with a courteous excuse he rejoined his friends.
It was dinner-time before Chilcote could desert the House, but the moment departure was possible he hurried to Grosvenor Square.
As he entered the house, the hall was empty. He swore irritably under his breath and pressed the nearest bell. Since his momentary exaltation in Fraide's presence, his spirits had steadily fallen, until now they hung at the lowest ebb.