The great house stood out boldly against the wintry sky, and Dick Faversham could plainly see the window of the room where, years before, he had taken the pen to sign the paper which would have placed him in Count Romanoff's power. Like lightning his mind flashed back to the fateful hour. He saw himself holding the pen, saw the words which Romanoff had written standing clearly out on the white surface, saw himself trying to trace the letters of his name, and then he felt the hand on his wrist. It was only a light touch, but he no longer had the power to write.

Was it a moral impulse which had come to him, or was it some force which paralysed his senses, and made him incapable of holding the pen? It seemed to be both. He remembered having a loathing for the thing Romanoff wanted him to do. Even then he felt like shuddering at the dark influences which sapped his will-power, and made wrong seem like right. But there was more than that. Some force outside himself kept him from writing.

And he was glad. True, he was a poor man, and instead of owning the stately mansion before him, he would presently return to his tiny flat, where he would have to calculate about every sixpence he spent. But he was free; he was master of his soul. He was a man of some importance too. He was the Labour Member for Eastroyd; he had secured the confidence of many thousands of working people, and his voice was listened to with much respect by Labour leaders, and in Labour conferences.

But he was not quite satisfied. He did not want to be the representative of one class only, but of all classes. He remembered that he had been lately spoken of as being "too mealy-mouthed," and as "having too much sympathy with the employers."

"A voting machine at four hundred a year!"

Romanoff's words still stung him, wounded him. He longed for a larger life, longed to speak for all classes, longed to mingle with those of his own upbringing and education.

"What are you thinking of?"

For the moment he had forgotten the girl at his side, almost forgotten the subject they had been discussing.

"Of many things," he replied.

"You were thinking of that man, Count Romanoff."

"Was I? Yes, I suppose I was. How did you know?"

"Telepathy," she replied. "Shall we go back?"

"If you will. Did you not say you wanted to go to the house?"

"I don't think I do now. I'm afraid it would be painful to you. But, Mr. Faversham, I'm glad I helped you; glad you do not own Wendover Park."

"So am I," he replied; "the price would have been too terrible."

She looked at him questioningly. She did not quite understand his words.

"I wonder if you would think it an impertinence if I asked you to promise me something," she said.

"Nothing you could ask would be an impertinence," he responded eagerly; "nothing."

"That Count Romanoff is evil," she said, "evil; I am sure he is. I know nothing about him, but I am sure of what I say. Will you promise to have nothing to do with him? I think you will meet him again. I don't know why, but I have a feeling that you will. That is why I wanted to say this, and I wanted to say it in sight of the house which you love."

"I promise," replied Dick. "It is very good of you to have so much interest in me."

"In a way, I don't know that I have very much interest," she said simply; "and I'm afraid I'm acting on impulse. Granddad says that that is my weakness."

"I don't think it is a weakness. I'm not likely to see Count Romanoff again; but I promise, gladly promise, that if I do I'll yield to him in nothing. Is that what you mean?"

"Yes, that's what I mean."

Her humour suddenly changed. She seemed to have no further interest in Wendover Park, or its possessor, whoever it might be, and their conversation became of the most commonplace nature. They chatted about the possibilities of peace, the future of Germany, and the tremendous problems Britain would have to face, but all interest in the question which had engrossed her mind seemed to have left her. Dick was to her only an ordinary acquaintance who had casually crossed the pathway of her life, and who might never do so again. Indeed, as presently they reached the highroad, he thought she became cold and reserved, it might seem, too, that he somewhat bored her.

Presently they heard the sound of horses' hoofs coming toward them, and they saw a lady on horseback.

"That's Lady Blanche Huntingford," she said; "do you know her?"

"I did know her slightly," replied Dick, who felt no excitement whatever on seeing her.

"Oh yes, of course you did. She's a great beauty, isn't she?"

"I suppose so." Dick remembered how, in London months before, she had refused to recognise him.

For a moment Lady Blanche seemed surprised at seeing Dick. She scrutinised him closely, as if she was not quite sure it was he. Then her colour heightened somewhat, and with a nod which might have embraced them both, she passed on.

"We must get back to the house," Beatrice said; "Granddad and Sir George will have returned by this time, and they will want their tea."

"Sir George is leaving you to-morrow, isn't he?" asked Dick.

"Yes," she replied, and Dick's heart grew heavy as he saw the look in her eyes. He did not know why.

"He's a great soldier, I suppose? I think I've been told so."

"The greatest and bravest man in the army," she replied eagerly. "He's simply splendid. It's not often that a soldier is a scholar, but Granddad says there are few men alive who are greater authorities on Egyptian questions."

A feeling of antagonism rose in Dick's heart against Sir George Weston, he felt angry that Beatrice should think so highly of him.

"He's a Devonshire man, isn't he?" he asked.

"Yes; he has a lovely old place down there. The house is built of grey granite. It is very, very old, and it looks as though it would last for hundreds and hundreds of years. It is situated on a wooded hillside, and at the back, above the woods, is a vast stretch of moorland. In front is a lovely park studded with old oaks."

"You describe the place with great enthusiasm." There was envy in his tones, and something more than envy.

"Do I? I love Devonshire. Love its granite tors, its glorious hills and valleys. No wonder it is called 'Glorious Devon.'"

By the time they reached the cottage Sir George Weston and Hugh Stanmore had returned, and tea was on the table. Sir George seemed somewhat excited, while old Hugh Stanmore was anything but talkative. It might seem as though, during the afternoon, the two had talked on matters of greater interest than the tombs of Egyptian kings.

When the time came for Dick to depart, Hugh Stanmore said he would walk a little way with him. For a happy, and singularly contented man, he appeared much disturbed.

"I am so glad you came, Mr. Faversham," said Beatrice as she bade him good-bye. "We had a lovely walk, hadn't we?"

"Wonderful," replied Dick. "I shall never forget it."

"And you'll not forget your promise, will you?"

"No, I shall not forget it."

"You will let us know, won't you, when you are going to speak in the House of Commons? I shall insist on Granddad taking me to hear you."

Sir George Weston looked from one to the other suspiciously. He could not understand her interest in him.

"What do you think of Weston?" asked Hugh Stanmore, when they had walked some distance together.

"I suppose he's a very fine soldier," evaded Dick.

"Oh yes, there's no doubt about that. But how did he strike you—personally?"

"I'm afraid I didn't pay much attention to him. He seemed a pleasant kind of man." Dick felt very non-committal. "Do you know him well?"

"Yes; fairly well. I met him before the war. He and I were interested in the same subjects. He has travelled a great deal in the East. Of course I've known of his family all my life. A very old family which has lived in the same house for generations. I think he is the eighth baronet. But I was not thinking of that. I was thinking of him as a man. You'll forgive my asking you, won't you, but do you think he could make my little girl happy?"

Dick felt a strange weight on his heart. He felt bitter too.

"I am afraid my opinion would be of little value," he replied. "You see I know nothing of him, neither for that matter am I well acquainted with Miss Stanmore."

"No, I suppose that's true, and perhaps I ought not to have asked you. I often scold Beatrice for acting so much on impulse, while I am constantly guilty of the same offence. But I don't look on you as a stranger. Somehow I seem to know you well, and I wanted your opinion. I can speak freely to you, can't I?"

"Certainly."

"He has asked me this afternoon if I'll consent to Beatrice becoming his wife."

Dick was silent. He felt he could not speak.

"Of course, from a worldly standpoint it would be a good match," went on Hugh Stanmore. "Sir George is a rich man, and has a fine reputation, not only as a scholar and a soldier, but as a man. There has never been a blemish on his reputation. He stands high in the county, and could give my little girl a fine position."

"Doubtless," and Dick hardly knew that he spoke.

"I don't think I am a snob," went on the old man; "but such things must weigh somewhat. I am not a pauper, but, as wealth is counted to-day, I am a poor man. I am also old, and in the course of nature can't be here long. That is why I am naturally anxious about my little Beatrice's future. And yet I am in doubt."

"About what?"

"Whether he could make her happy. And that is everything as far as I am concerned. Beatrice, as you must have seen, is just a happy child of nature, and is as sensitive as a lily. To be wedded to a man who is not—how shall I put it?—her affinity, her soul comrade, would be lifelong misery to her. And unless I were sure that Sir George is that, I would not think of giving my consent."

"Aren't you forgetful of a very important factor?" asked Dick.

"What is that?"

"Miss Stanmore herself. In these days girls seem to take such matters largely into their own hands. The consent of relations is regarded as a very formal thing."

"I don't think you understand, Faversham. Beatrice is not like the common run of girls, and she and I are so much to each other that I don't think for a moment that she would marry any man if I did not give my sanction. In fact, I'm sure she wouldn't. She's only my granddaughter, but she's all the world to me, while—yes, I am everything to her. No father loved a child more than I love her. I've had her since she was a little mite, and I've been father, mother, and grandfather all combined. And I'd do anything, everything in my power for her welfare. I know her—know her, Faversham; she's as pure and unsullied as a flower."

"But, of course, Sir George Weston has spoken to her?"

"No, he hasn't. For one thing, he has very strict ideas about old-fashioned courtesies, and, for another, he knows our relations to each other."

"Do you know her mind?—know whether she cares for him—in that way?" asked Dick.

"No, I don't. I do know that, a week ago, she had no thought of love for any man. But, of course, I couldn't help seeing that during the past week he has paid her marked attention. Whether she's been aware of it, I haven't troubled to ascertain."

In some ways this old man was almost as much a child as his granddaughter, in spite of his long life, and Dick could hardly help smiling at his simplicity.

"Of course, I imagine she'll marry sometime," and Dick's voice was a trifle hoarse as he spoke.

"Yes," replied Hugh Stanmore. "That is natural and right. God intended men and women to marry, I know that. But if they do not find their true mate, then it's either sacrilege or hell—especially to the woman. Marriage is a ghastly thing unless it's a sacrament—unless the man and the woman feel that their unity is of God. Marriage ceremonies, and the blessing of the Church, or whatever it is called, is so much mockery unless they feel that their souls are as one. Don't you agree with me?"

"Yes, I do. I suppose," he added, "you stipulate that whoever marries her—shall—shall be a man of wealth?"

"No, I shouldn't, except in this way. No man should marry a woman unless he has the wherewithal to keep her. He would be a mean sort of fellow who would drag a woman into want and poverty. But, of course, that does not obtain in this case."

"I'm afraid I can't help, or advise you," said Dick. "I'm afraid I'm a bit of an outsider," and he spoke bitterly. "Neither do I think you will need advice. Miss Stanmore has such a fine intuition that——"

"Ah, you feel that!" broke in Hugh Stanmore almost excitedly. "Yes, yes, you are right! I can trust her judgment rather than my own. Young as she is, she'll choose right. Yes, she'll choose right! I think I'll go back now. Yes, I'll go back at once. Our conversation has done me good, and cleared my way, although I've done most of the talking. Good-night, Faversham. I wish you well. I think you can do big things as a politician; but I don't agree with you."

"Don't agree with me? Why?"

"I don't believe in these party labels. You are a party man, a Labour man. I have the deepest sympathy with the toilers of the world. I have been working for them for fifty years. Perhaps, too, the Labour Party is the outcome of the injustice of the past. But all such parties have a tendency to put class against class, to see things in a one-sided way, to foster bitterness and strife. Take my advice and give up being a politician."

"Give up being a politician! I don't understand."

"A politician in the ordinary sense is a party man; too often a party hack, a party voting machine. Be more than a politician, be a statesman. All classes of society are interdependent. We can none of us do without the other. Capital and labour, the employer and the employee, all depend on each other. All men should be brothers and work for the common interest. Don't seek to represent a class, or to legislate for a class, Faversham. Work for all the classes, work for the community as a whole. And remember that Utopia is not created in a day. Good-night. Come and see us again soon."

Hugh Stanmore turned back, and left Dick alone. The young man felt strangely depressed, strangely lonely. He pictured Hugh Stanmore going back to the brightness and refinement of his little house, to be met with the bright smiles and loving words of his grandchild, while he plodded his way through the darkness. He thought, too, of Sir George Weston, who, even then, was with Beatrice Stanmore. Perhaps, most likely too, he was telling her that he loved her.

He stopped suddenly in the road, his brain on fire, his heart beating madly. A thousand wild fancies flashed through his brain, a thousand undefinable hopes filled his heart.

"No, it's impossible, blankly impossible!" he cried at length. "A will-o'-the-wisp, the dream of a madman—a madman! Why, even now she may be in his arms!"

The thought was agony to him. Even yet he did not know the whole secret of his heart, but he knew that he hated Sir George Weston, that he wished he had urged upon old Hugh Stanmore the utter unfitness of the great soldier as a husband for his grandchild.

But how could he? What right had he? Besides, according to all common-sense standards nothing could be more suitable. She was his equal in social status, and every way fitted to be his wife, while he would be regarded as the most eligible suitor possible.

"A voting machine at four hundred a year!"

Again those stinging words of Count Romanoff. And old Hugh Stanmore had spoken in the same vein. "A party hack, a party voting machine!"

And he could not help himself. He was dependent on that four hundred a year. He dared ask no woman to be his wife. He had no right. He would only drag her into poverty and want.

All the way back to town his mind was filled with the hopelessness of his situation. The fact that he had won a great victory at Eastroyd and was a newly returned Member of Parliament brought him no pleasure. He was a party hack, and he saw no brightness in the future.

Presently Parliament assembled, and Dick threw himself with eagerness into the excitement which followed. Every day brought new experiences, every day brought new interests.

But he felt himself hampered. If he only had a few hundreds a year of his own. If only he could be free to live his own life, think his own thoughts. Not that he did not agree with many of the ideas of his party. He did. But he wanted a broader world, a greater freedom. He wanted to love, and to be loved.

Then a change came. On returning to his flat late one night he found a letter awaiting him. On the envelope was a coroneted crest, and on opening it he saw the name of Olga Petrovic.