“Forgive me, Miss Hawthorne,” I exclaimed. “I—I do not know what I am doing, what I am saying. I am distracted—wretched.” I was silent. I dared go no further. The vision of Wynwood Melton cried check to the bounding thoughts that came surging from my heart.
“The evening of the 20th will find you in better form.”
I shook my head. The future was utterly dreary—one blank, sunless waste.
“You will win this election, Mr. Ormonde.”
I sighed deeply.
“A barren victory.”
“A barren victory!” she exclaimed with considerable animation. “Do you consider it a barren victory to beat the Carlton Club, the great conservative stronghold of England, whose every ukase is law—to beat the De Ruthven faction, who have held your beautiful county in subjection since the Pale?”
“A Dead-Sea apple. In winning this election I win your hatred.”
“My hatred?” opening her lovely violet eyes in delicious wonder.
“Yes, Miss Hawthorne; if I am elected I shall have beaten the man you love.”