Peter and Lady Mary travelled up to London next morning in the same train. They separated at Arlington Street, and she asked him to come and see her on the evening of the following day. Peter lightly promised, and happily left her.

Late in the day he sat with his mother in Curzon Street with open windows, idle and reminiscent. His talk in the boat with Lady Mary had emphasized his impressions of the life he was leading. It was not all wise and beautiful. His absurd enthusiasm had again been mocked. He measured what he had saved from the wreck of his expectations. The people with whom he now was living were more frank and free than any he had known. They were on the whole without fear. They feared neither men, nor words, nor the satisfaction of their heart's desire. But he had not found, and would not find, Eustace Haversham repeated.

He considered Lady Mary. Was not the world justified in that it put her high above fear and calculation, bidding her be queenly and untroubled? Peter tried to see her snatched from her world of policy and grace. Might she not show fairer yet, seen apart from the things for which she stood? Last night she had seemed like a creature with wings caught and held. How would they fare, those beating wings, if the common round too obstinately claimed her? Jealousy caught at Peter—the jealousy he had felt years ago when he saw a woman of the street pass to her desecration.

"How much do I love her?" he asked, prompted by the pain at his heart.

He loved her as far as the clasping of hands and his privileged admission to regard closely her perfection. His passion was a strong resolve that she should purely stand to be adored, not familiar, too delicate to catch at rudely for a possession.

His thoughts were shattered by a screaming in the street. Something extraordinary had happened. Peter moved to the window, and saw a newsboy rushing down from Piccadilly. Servants hurried from the doors, and bought the papers as he came. Peter at last heard the news, and saw the big black letters of the boy's fluttering bill. Wenderby had resigned. Peter turned impatiently away. These politics did not touch him.

But London was clearly interested. Next morning the papers were heavy with this great event. It stared at Peter from every corner of the street. Peter did not trouble to read the excited press. Since Wenderby had ceased to cloud the presence of his angel Peter had not regarded him. Frequently he paused that morning in his quiet reading of the law, but he paused to think only of an evening with Lady Mary.

Lady Mary was with Wenderby at that moment in her drawing-room at Arlington Street.

"I am pledged to you, Lord Wenderby," she was saying; and he answered:

"You talk like a creditor."

"Are you not a creditor?" she insisted. "You have put me beyond remedy into your debt."

"My resignation had to come last night, or not at all," he explained. "I was not trying to force you."

She measured him with a look, deliberate and frank.

"If I thought you were trying to force me," she said, "I should not be listening to you now. Your debt will be paid in full. But you must give me time. There are things you must allow me to forget."

Wenderby rose to go. He held her hand at parting, and hesitated a moment. The settled sadness of her manner showed him that she was looking back; showed him also that she had faced the future, and would not weakly remember things she must put away.

"Mary," he said, "if you cannot reasonably go through with this, remember that I resigned last night for the chance of you. It was only a chance."

"It was a safe chance," she answered quickly; "a chance that depended on my honour."

Wenderby gratefully accepted her decision. He became practical.

"How would you have it arranged?" he asked. "I mean the formal part of it."

"We must meet, and be publicly seen. The engagement—shall we say three months from now?"

Her sobriety misgave him. He began to realise the extent of her sacrifice. Had he pressed her unfairly?

"You are sure you can go on with this?" he urgently asked, again opening a way of retreat.

"Quite sure," she firmly answered. "I cannot yet be glad of this event; but I shouldn't undertake to be your wife if I did not think I was able to keep faith. I shall join you gladly, and without reserve."

Wenderby bent his head.

"I don't think you will regret this," he said with deep emotion. "Everything I have is now devoted to you and the things which are dear to you. But I won't urge personal feeling on you now."

He pressed her hand in a quick and friendly farewell. In another moment she was alone, able to think of her coming interview with Peter. She had begun to dread this so keenly that in a fit of shrinking she had almost written to him. She feared to see his pain, and trembled for its effect upon herself.

Peter's invitation was for dinner at Arlington Street. Shortly before he came Lady Mary talked with her brother. He had just arrived in town, brought by Wenderby's resignation. He at once looked for his sister.

They greeted in the drawing-room shortly before dinner.

"This is great news," he began. "I came up from Yorkshire with the Chief Whip. He thinks we shall turn them out." He paused, and looked closely at his sister.

"I am very proud of you, Mary," he went on. "You have accepted the work of your life."

Lady Mary had lately seen little of Haversham. His work began utterly to absorb him. She put her hand on his arm.

"Tony," she said, "I sometimes wonder if I'm not losing a brother."

"Mary, dear," he protested, "you are more than ever precious to me now."

Lady Mary sadly shook her head.

"Your first word to me was of the Chief Whip," she reminded him.

Haversham was touched. He put his hand gently on his sister's arm.

"We do not belong to ourselves," he pleaded. "This act of yours is a public thing."

"I have a personal thing still left to do," she said. "Peter is coming to-night. You must leave him with me."

"That will be easy," he assured her. "They're all political people this evening. We shall go on afterwards to the House."

The talk at dinner was all of Wenderby's resignation. The division that night would show the strength of his following. Peter was exasperated by the persistence with which this event pursued him.

"Is this resignation really important?" he asked in an early pause of the conversation. Lady Mary had left her seat at the foot of the table.

"Important!" his neighbour exclaimed at him. "Why, it's the most important event in politics for fifty years. It changes everything."

"This, Peter, is not one of those important things which happen every day," said Haversham quietly. "I would have given almost anything to bring this about."

"At any rate, Haversham," said one of the politicians, "you have helped it a little."

"I'm afraid not."

"Just a little, I think," the politician insisted. "Your friendship with Wenderby must have counted. These personal things do weigh. Wenderby was not very comfortable with his late friends."

"Lord Wenderby's change of party, I suppose, is final?" Peter politely suggested.

"Quite," said Haversham curtly.

"He'll certainly stay with us," chuckled Peter's neighbour. "We shall make it worth while."

"There's less competition on our side," said another. "We haven't any brains under sixty-five."

"Moreover," said Haversham incisively, "Wenderby is a man of honour."

"Has that anything to do with it?" Peter must somehow persist in his hostility. He could only think of Wenderby as an adventurer. Haversham lifted a finger at him:

"Peter," he said, "we shall quarrel if you cannot help being rude to one of my best friends. You must believe in Wenderby. You don't know how essential it is."

They broke up, and prepared to leave for the House. Haversham told Peter he would find Lady Mary in her drawing-room. Peter went happily to discover her. He had seen her room only once before. He remembered with pleasure how exquisitely it framed her.