her eyes shine as she listened. There was a younger
school of politicians which was well represented at Lady Agatha's
parties. Their theories had the generosity of youth. Sir Michael Auberon
would listen to them, nodding his head, his fine, beautiful old face lit
up with as great a generosity as warmed theirs. He was very fond of his
"boys." If he must show them what was impracticable in their views he
did it gently. He rallied them with tenderness. He had none of the
mockery which is so searing and blighting a thing to hot youth.

One night Mary, looking down the dinner-table, saw a face she
remembered. The owner of the face--a tall, loosely-built, plain-looking
young man--glanced her way at the moment, and stared--stared and looked
away again with a baffled air. Mary knew him at once for the boy she had
met seven or eight years before at the Court. He had aged considerably.
Men like him have a way of falling into their manhood all at once. His
hair was even a little thin on top--with that and his lean, hatchet face
he might have been thirty-five.

Afterwards in the drawing-room he was one of those who stood nearest to
Sir Michael. Some of the others laughed at him, calling him Don Quixote,
and she heard Sir Michael say that the young man's theories were those
of the Gironde. "The Revolution devours her own children," he said, with
his fine old ironic smile. "And a good many of us have to eat our own
professions before we're forty. The great thing would be if we could
keep our youthful generosity with the wisdom of our prime."

Looking towards Mary, he caught the flame of enthusiasm in her eyes, and
again he smiled. But this time it was a smile without irony, rather an
understanding and, one might have said, a grateful smile. All the world
knew that Sir Michael's private sorrows were heavy ones, and that he
leant the more on the alleviations and consolations his public life
brought him.

Afterwards he asked to be introduced to Mary and talked with her for a
little while, making her the envy of the room.

"She has a clear mind as well as a sound heart," he said. "She is on
fire with the passion for humanity. Take her about with you"--this to
Lady Agatha. "Let her see how the people live--what serfs we have under
our free banner. There is fine material in her. She should do good
work."

Meanwhile Mrs. Morres sat by Mary, doing crochet, with a quiet smile.
Her tongue dripped cold water on all the enthusiasms.

"B