conversation, she would perhaps have seen no reason, finally, to change
her opinion. Very agreeable that discursive talk had been to both
participants. Buntingford had talked with great frankness of his own
plans. In three months or so, his Admiralty work would be over. He
thought very likely that the Government would then give him a modest
place in the Administration. He might begin by representing the Admiralty
in the Lords, and as soon as he got a foot on the political ladder
prospects would open. On the whole, he thought, politics would be his
line. He had no personal axes to grind; was afraid of nothing; wouldn't
care if the Lords were done away with to-morrow, and could live on a
fraction of his income if the Socialists insisted on grabbing the rest.
But the new world which the war had opened was a desperately interesting
one. He hadn't enough at stake in it to spoil his nerve. Whatever
happened, he implied, he was steeled--politically and intellectually.
Nothing could deprive him either of the joy of the fight, or the
amusement of the spectacle.

And Cynthia, her honey-gold hair blown back from her white temples by the
summer wind, her blue parasol throwing a summer shade about her, showed
herself, as they strolled backwards and forwards over the shady lawn of
the cottage, a mistress of the listening art; and there is no art more
winning, either to men or women.

Then, in a moment, what broke the spell? Some hint or question from her,
of a more intimate kind?--something that touched a secret place, wholly
unsuspected by her? She racked her brains afterwards to think what it
could have been; but in vain. All she knew was that the man beside her
had suddenly stiffened. His easy talk had ceased to flow; while still
walking beside her, he seemed to be miles away. So that by a quick common
impulse both stood still.