When Sara reached home, she was dismayed to hear that Lord Reckage had called during her absence and was waiting for her return. The prospect of an interview with him seemed so disagreeable that she walked first to the library, and sat there alone, for some moments, before she could summon the presence of mind which every sense warned her would be required for the ordeal. At last, with a pinched heart, she went up the great staircase, and found Reckage writing at her own table in the drawing-room. He turned quickly, and jumped to his feet at the rustle of her dress. He was looking unusually handsome, she thought, very animated, very dashing.

“You will forgive these clothes,” said he, “but I have ordered Pluto round at four o'clock, and I am going for a long ride.”

“What a strange idea!” she answered, taking off her gloves. “Where are you going?”

“To Hampstead Heath. I need the air and the exercise. I have to compose a speech.”

“The speech for the Meeting?”

His brow darkened, and he pushed back with his foot a log which was falling from the open grate.

“No, not that speech. Another. Disraeli has asked me to go in his stead to Hanborough. I don't like to attach over-importance to the invitation, but he must mean it as an encouragement. Evidently, he wishes to show that Aumerle and the rest are without any shadow of right in their attacks. I have been above five years working up this society, and if, at the end of that time, I am president only by dint of family interest, be assured the situation cannot be worth having. When I leave, it will go all to pieces.”

“But you don't intend to leave, surely?”

“Indeed, I do.”

“Have you hinted at resignation?”

“No, I sha'n't hint. Hints belong to the unconsidered patience of fools. I won't give them an inkling of my real tactics. Let them lollop along in their own wretched fashion to some final imbecility! I have other matters to think of, Sara. Doesn't Disraeli's action say, as delicately as possible, that I am wasting my time over small men? I have been altogether too easy of access. Simplicity and consideration are thrown away on the Snookses and the Pawkinses! With these gentry, one must be a vulgar, bragging snob, or they think one is not worth knowing.”

“But you owe it to yourself and to Orange to hold the Meeting to-morrow?” she said, anxiously.

“There is a way out of it,” he answered, avoiding her eyes. “We can talk of that presently.”

“Nothing interests me more.”

“That is not true,” he said, taking a chair near her; “there are many things which must interest both of us much, much more than that stupid Meeting.”

“I prefer not to speak of them now, Beauclerk.”

“I can't go on in this uncertainty. I am beginning to think I am a blundering fellow—where women are concerned. When we were together as children, I seem to remember, looking back, that I always did the wrong thing. And later—when you came out and I fancied myself a man of the world, it was the same. I don't know exactly what a girl is at eighteen, but I know that a fellow of twenty-five is an ass. He is probably well-meaning: he isn't hardened by ambition and he is pretty sentimental, as a rule. Yet he doesn't have fixed ideas. One day it dawned upon me that I was in love.”

“Now don't say that.”

“I repeat it. I am far from wishing to pose as a martyr, but whenever one is happy, all one's friends think that one is going to make some fatal mistake. I suppose no battle can be won without a battle. But life has always had a good deal of painfulness to me, and I hate opposition. It isn't lack of courage on my part—I can fight an enemy to the death. When it comes to quarrelling with relatives or those I care about—well, I own I can seldom see good reasons for keeping a stiff neck.”

“I am perfectly convinced of your spirit, Beauclerk; every circumstance serves to show it. There was never a time when you did the wrong thing—in my judgment.”

“You are generous, but I dare not believe you there. Much that I did and all that I left unsaid must have puzzled you. I wouldn't speak now, Sara, if I didn't feel sure that in spite of my faults, my stupidity, my want of self-knowledge, you saw that I was destined to love you.”

It was impossible to deny this fact. She had been well aware always of his affection, and the certainty had given a peculiar emotional value to every scene—no matter how commonplace—to every occasion, no matter how crowded, to every conversation, no matter how trivial—in which he figured or his name transpired. He and poor Marshire were the two men in the world who really loved her. Marshire was the more desperate because he was less intelligent and had fewer interests; Reckage loved her with all the force of a selfish, vain, and spoilt nature. Such a passion she knew was not especially noble and certainly not ideal. But it was strong, and it made him submissive.

“Sara,” he said, “you have got to help me.” He put his arm round her waist, and as she inclined her face ever so slightly toward his, he kissed her cheek.

“How can I help you?” she asked.

“Let us marry.”

“I don't wish to marry any one just yet, Beauclerk,” she said; “I like my liberty. I don't feel that I should make either a good wife, or a contented one, as I am now. I want to see more and think more before I give up my will to another.”

“I would not ask you to give up your will.”

“We should be utterly miserable if I didn't.”

“Believe me, it is the weak, effeminate creature who wishes to control women. Men of character respect women of character. These fellows who declare that they will be masters in their own house are masters nowhere else. I delight in your spirit. Orange and I have often agreed,” he added, with a searching look, “that you are the most brilliant girl in England.”

“Why do you quote Robert?” she said carelessly; “isn't your opinion enough for me?”

“Can you pretend that his opinion has no weight with you?”

She laughed, and stroked his arm.

“My dear, why should I pretend anything? To tell the truth, I am surprised that Orange has noticed me. I saw Mrs. Parflete to-day. I understand his infatuation.”

“I have always told you that she was a very pretty woman. But why is it that, no matter where we start, we always come back to Orange? I am getting sick of him. I dislike being affichÉ, as it were, to some one else. This marriage of his pursues me. If I go into a club, if I dine, if I ride, if I walk—ten to one if I am not pelted with questions about Mrs. Parflete, or Robert's history, or his genius, or his future plans. I must drop him.”

“Drop him?” she exclaimed.

“Yes. It doesn't help me to appear so friendly with a Roman. I know he is very fine, but I have to consider my own position. They all say that it would be madness to take the chair now at his meeting.”

“But it was your meeting, Beauclerk.”

“In the first place, perhaps. I thought, too, it might be a good, independent move. Disraeli's invitation to Hanborough puts another complexion on affairs. It is the first formal recognition that he, as Leader, has ever given me. It is a reminder of my responsibilities. He is fond of Orange, I know, and he wouldn't hurt his feelings, or seem to put a spoke in his wheel, for all the world. But Dizzy is subtle. He likes to test one's savoir vivre.”

“Shall you tell Orange that you intend to throw him over?”

“Not yet.”

“Oh, you ought!”

“Why? I want the meeting to take place. It will be useful in its way—it may show us how public opinion is going.”

Sara hid her contempt by rising from her chair and removing her hat. Reckage watched the play of her arms as she stood before the mirror, and he did not see, as she could, the reflection of his face—sensual, calculating, and, stormed as it was for the moment by the meanest feelings of self-interest, repellent.

“How I hate him!” she thought; “how I despise him!”

Then she turned round, smiling—

“Hats make my head ache! So you think the meeting will be useful?”

“Emphatically. It did occur to me that I might drop a line to Robert—in fact, I was writing to him when you came in. Here's the letter, as you see, signed and sealed.”

“Do send it.”

“No,” he answered, putting it back into his pocket; “one could only get him on the platform just now by making him believe that such an action would, in some way, help me. You don't know Robert.”

“I daresay not, but I know that much.”

“This being the case, why upset him at the eleventh hour?”

She made no reply, and before Reckage could speak again, the servant announced the arrival of his horse.

“I intend to ride like the devil, Sara,” he said; “and I wish you could come with me. What rides we used to have—long ago! You were a larky little thing in those days, darling!”

He bent down and kissed her lips.

“You shall marry me—or no one,” said he; “but you are cold: you are not very nice to me. I suppose it's your way. You wouldn't be yourself if you were like other women. You are not a woman, you're a witch. Must I go now?”

Sara had opened the door.

“Yes, you know how Pluto hates to wait.”

“That animal will be the death of me yet. Will you stand on the balcony and watch me till I am out of sight? Have pretty manners—for once.”

“Very well.”

She went on to the balcony, watched him mount, and ride away. He turned several times to gaze back at her picturesque figure, dim, but to him lovely in the gathering dusk.