chat alone.

Miss Wycliffe took the chair in which Leigh had seen her at his
entering. She held no fancy work in her hands, but toyed gracefully
with the ivory cimeter which had separated the leaves of her novel. He
was reminded of the episode of the ring by observing that she wore no
jewelry except the string of gold beads, and wondered whether she had a
philosophical contempt for such adornment. If it were a matter of
taste, as indeed it must be, her instinct, he felt, was singularly
correct, for such adventitious aids could add nothing to her beauty.
They were rather the final dependence of wrinkled dowagers. As he
watched her through the smoke of his cigarette, chatting still of the
wedding, he was aware that she appeared conscious of the voices whose
intonations rose and fell beyond the study door. Presently the sound
was varied by a hearty laugh.

"I 've no doubt they have gone back to politics," she remarked. Her
words recalled the conversation at the table, which he had by this time
forgotten.

"This is a good opportunity to carry out your promise to convert me to
your point of view," he answered, "and I am quite prepared to be
converted. Being a Mugwump, the mere name of a party holds no
superstitious sway over my imagination. Still, my support, like your
own, must be purely sentimental, for I have no vote in Warwick. I have
heard just enough to arouse my curiosity and interest. Who is this Mr.
Burke?"

"Emmet," she corrected. "Mr. Cardington would have his jest in
comparing him with Burke. You noticed, perhaps, that they were more or