“But surely you will not deliberately seek such an inglorious end—you, the pride and hope of a political party, and one of a race that has century after century been famous for producing noble Englishmen. It is madness—sheer madness!”
“I know it,” he admitted; “but to me birth, position, wealth, popularity are all nothing.”
“I can quite understand that all these qualities may count as nothing to you, Mr Chisholm,” she said in a tone of voice indicative of impatience, “but there is still one reason more why you should hesitate to take the step you have just been contemplating.”
“And what is that?”
For a moment she remained silent, looking straight at him with her splendid eyes, as if to read the book of his heart. At length she made answer:
“Because a woman worships you.”
He started, wondering quickly if his midnight visitor intended those words to convey a declaration of love. With an effort he smiled in a good-humoured way, but almost instantly his dark features regained their tragic expression.
“And if a woman pays me that compliment, is it not a misfortune for her?” he asked. There was a motive in her concealment there. What could it be?
“It surely should not be so, if the love is perfect, as it is in the present case.”
“Well,” he said, smiling, “apparently you are better acquainted with my private affairs than I am myself, Miss Mortimer. But in any case the love of this woman whom you mention can be only a passing fancy. True, I was loved once, long ago. But that all belongs to the past.”