“I think not, dear,” was her reply. “I have a little headache—the sun, I think—so I shall rest.”
“Very well. I’ll have a drive alone.”
“Let’s see,” she exclaimed; “didn’t you say you were going out to-night?”
“Yes, dear, to Polivin’s. There’s a man-party this evening. You don’t mind, do you? I promised him some time ago, and for political reasons I desire to be friendly. I shan’t go till ten o’clock, and no doubt you will go to bed early.”
“By all means go, dear,” she said, very sweetly. “I—I had forgotten the day.”
It was not often he left her alone of an evening when they were together during the recess. In the London season she was, as a political hostess, often compelled to go out alone, while he, too, had frequently to attend functions where it was impossible for her to be present. Sometimes, indeed, days and days passed and they only met at breakfast. Frequently, too, he was so engrossed in affairs of State that, though he was in the house, yet he was closeted hours and hours with Darnborough, with some high Foreign Office official, an ambassador, or a Cabinet Minister.
That big, sombre room of his in the dark, gloomy London mansion was indeed a room of political secrets, just as was his private room at the Foreign Office. If those walls could but speak, what strange tales they might tell—tales of clever juggling with the Powers, of ingenious counter-plots against conspiracies ever arising to disturb the European peace, plots concocted by Britain’s enemies across the seas, and the evolution of master strokes of foreign policy.
“Are you quite sure you prefer not to go for a drive this afternoon?” he asked, looking across at her.
“No, really, dear. I don’t feel at all fit. It is the excessive heat. It was awfully oppressive on the beach.”
“Very well, dear. Rest then, and get right by the time I get in for tea.”