“That’s right, motherling. Do, for Gloria’s sake.”
He kisses her tenderly and goes out, for he hears Evie Ravensdale’s step approaching. The two friends and colleagues meet just outside the door.
“Let’s go to your room, Evie,” he says gently, “and let us have a chat before I go to work. Chats with you are a luxury now. We don’t find much time for them, do we? By-the-bye, I have just had a telegram from Flora Desmond: the regiments have reached the Hall of Liberty. She reports the last march of twenty-seven miles in eight and a half hours, with not one single fall out from the ranks. Yet they would have us believe that women are weak, feeble creatures, unable to endure fatigue. There is the lie direct.”
They pass on into the duke’s study, a room full of pleasant memories for Hector D’Estrange. Many a happy hour has he spent here with the truest and best friend of his life, the one man whom he loves above all things, and, with the exception of Speranza, the only being to whom he is passionately attached. A big oil painting hangs above the fireplace. Two figures are represented on the canvas. One is a tall, dark-haired, dark-eyed man, with long silken moustache and aristocratic mien, the other of shorter and slighter build, with a face of exquisite beauty. The features are those of a very young man, the eyes are sapphire-blue, the glossy, close curling hair of a deep old-gold colour. It is easy to recognise the former as Evelyn, Duke of Ravensdale, the latter as Hector D’Estrange. The picture has been executed by the duke’s order, and represents the two friends first meeting—ever memorable for both.
They sit on alone together, these kindred spirits, happy in the communion of each other’s thoughts. They are seeking to scan the future and what it will bring, diving into the days that have yet to come. With Evie Ravensdale, it is a firm belief in the ultimate success of Hector D’Estrange’s scheme, a supreme and absolute confidence in his young chief’s ascendant star.
“I wonder who will be the first woman Prime Minister,” he observes dreamily. He is looking into the glowing coals, and does not notice the flush that rises to Hector D’Estrange’s cheeks.
“Ah, yes, who indeed?” echoes the latter quietly.
“Sometimes I think, Hector, that I can see her. Certainly I have seen her in my dreams,” continues the young duke softly.
“Can you describe her, Evie?” asks his friend.
“Ask me to paint your face, Hector, and then you have her in living life. Yes, my woman Prime Minister is an exact counterpart of Hector D’Estrange. Ah, Hector! if you were only a woman how madly I should love you; for love you as I do now, it can never be the same love as it would be if you were a woman.”