almost be said to be living apart."

"It will have to be a rich wife, I suppose," said Molly, slowly;
"that's the worst of success, it imposes so many conditions. I
rather knew, from something in your manner, that you were drifting
that way."

Youghal said nothing in the way of contradiction; he gazed
steadfastly at the aviary in front of him as though exotic
pheasants were for the moment the most absorbing study in the
world. As a matter of fact, his mind was centred on the image of
Elaine de Frey, with her clear untroubled eyes and her Leonardo da
Vinci air. He was wondering whether he was likely to fall into a
frame of mind concerning her which would be in the least like
falling in love.

"I shall mind horribly," continued Molly, after a pause, "but, of
course, I have always known that something of the sort would have
to happen one of these days. When a man goes into politics he
can't call his soul his own, and I suppose his heart becomes an
impersonal possession in the same way."

"Most people who know me would tell you that I haven't got a
heart," said Youghal.

"I've often felt inclined to agree with them," said Molly; "and
then, now and again, I think you have a heart tucked away
somewhere."

"I hope I have," said Youghal, "because I'm trying to break to you