She laughed softly upon him, laughed more with her eyes than with her lips. She watched him curiously.
"Dear me!" she murmured, "what would you have? I am a woman - I have been a woman all my days, and the memory of one kiss grows cold.
So I will admit that with me - it has been different. Come! What then?"
He groaned.
"I wonder," he said, "what miserable fate, what cursed stroke of fortune brought you once more into my life?"
She threw her head back and laughed at him, this time heartily, unaffectedly.
"What adorable candour!" she exclaimed. "My dear friend, how amiable you are."
He looked at her steadfastly, and somehow the laugh died away from her lips.
"Lucille, will you marry me?"
"Marry you? I? Certainly not."
"And why not?"
"For a score of reasons, if you want them," she answered. "First, because I think it is delightful to have you for a friend. I can never quite tell what you are going to do or say. As a husband I am almost sure that you would be monotonous. But then, how could you avoid it? It is madness to think of destroying a pleasant friendship in such a manner."
"You are mocking me," he said sadly.
"Well," she said, "why not? Your own proposal is a mockery.
"A mockery! My proposal!"
"Yes," she answered steadily. "You know quite well that the very thought of such a thing between you and me is an absurdity. I abhor your politics, I detest your party. You are ambitious, I know. You intend to be Prime Minister, a people's Prime Minister.
Well, for my part, I hate the people. I am an aristocrat. As your wife I should be in a perfectly ridiculous position. How foolish! You have led me into talking of this thing seriously.
Let us forget all this rubbish."
He stood before her - waiting patiently, his mouth close set, his manner dogged with purpose.
"It is not rubbish," he said. "It is true that I shall be Prime Minister. It is true also that you will be my wife."
She shrank back from him - uneasily. The fire in his eyes, the ring in his tone distressed her.
"As for my politics, you do not understand them. But you shall! I will convert you to my way of thinking. Yes, I will do that. The cause of the people, of *******, is the one great impulse which beats through all the world. You too shall hear it."
"Thank you," she said. "I have no wish to hear it. I do not believe in what you call ******* for the people. I have discovered in America how uncomfortable a people's country can he."
"Yet you married an American. You call yourself still the Countess Radantz ... but you married Mr. James B. Peterson!"
"It is true, my friend," she answered. "But the American in question was a person of culture and intelligence, and at heart he was no more a democrat than I am. Further, I am an extravagant woman, and he was a millionaire."
"And you, after his death, without necessity - went to bury yourself in his country."
"Why not?"
"I am jealous of every year of your life which lies hidden from me," he said slowly.
"Dear me - how uncomfortable!"
"Before you - reappeared," he said, "I had learnt, yes I had learnt to do without you. I had sealed up the one chapter of my life which had in it anything to do with sentiment. Your coming has altered all that. You have disturbed the focus of my ambitions.
Lucille! I have loved you for more than half a lifetime. Isn't it time I had my reward?"
He took a quick step towards her. In his tone was the ring of mastery, the light in his eyes was compelling. She shrank back, but he seized one of her hands. It lay between his, a cold dead thing.
"What have my politics to do with it?" he asked fiercely. "You are not an Englishwoman. Be content that I shall set you far above these gods of my later life. There is my work to be done, and I shall do it. Let me be judge of these things. Believe me that it is a great work. If you are ambitious - give your ambitions into my keeping, and I will gratify them. Only I cannot bear this suspense-these changing moods. Marry me-now at once, or send me back to the old life."
She drew her fingers away, and sank down into her easy-chair. Her head was buried in her hands. Was she thinking or weeping? He could not decide. While he hesitated she looked up, and he saw that there was no trace of tears upon her face.
"You are too masterful," she said gently. "I will not marry you.
I will not give myself body and soul to any man. Yet that is what you ask. I am not a girl. My opinions are as dear to me in their way as yours are to you. You want me to close my eyes while you drop sugar plums into my mouth. That is not my idea of life. I think that you had better go away. Let us forget these things."
"Very well," he answered. "It shall be as you say." He did not wait for her to ring, nor did he attempt any sort of farewell. He simply took up his hat, and before she could realise his intention he had left the room. Lucille sat quite still, looking into the fire.
"If only," she murmured, "if only this were the end."
