.'

'Why, yes, of course,' said Dolores.

'I don't think the Dictator is a marrying man. He has got the cause of
Gloria for a wife. Good morning, Miss Paulo. I have to get to the
Foreign Office.'

'I hope I haven't vexed you,' Dolores asked eagerly, and yet timidly,
'by asking a foolish question and taking notice of silly gossip?'

She knew Hamilton's secret now, and in her sympathy and her kindliness
and her assurance of being safe from misconstruction she laid her hand
gently on the young man's arm, and he looked at her, and thought he saw
a moisture in her eyes. And he knew that his secret was his no longer.
He knew that Dolores had in a moment seen the depths of his trouble.
Their eyes looked at each other, and then, only too quickly, away from
each other.

'Vexed me?' he said. 'No, indeed, Miss Paulo. You are one of the kindest
friends I have in the world.'

Now, what had this speech to do with the question of whether the
Dictator was likely or was not likely to ask Helena Langley to marry
him? Nothing at all, so far as an outer observer might see. But it had a
good deal to do with the realities of the situation for Hamilton and
Dolores. It meant, if its meaning could then have been put into plain
words on the part of Hamilton--'I know that you have found out my
secret--and I know, too, that you will be kind and tender with it--and I
like you all the better for having found it out, and for being so tender
with it, and it will be another bond of friendship between us--that, and
our common devotion to the Dictator. But this we cannot have in common
with the Dictator. Of this, however devoted to him we are, he must now
know nothing. This is for ourselves alone--for you and me.' It is a
serious business with young men and women when any story and any secret
is to be confined to 'you and me.'

For Dolores it meant that now she had a perfect right to be sympathetic
and kindly and friendly with Hamilton. She felt as if she were in his
absolute heart-confidence--although he had told her nothing whatever,
and she did not want him to tell her anything whatever. She knew enough.
He was in love, and he was disappointed. She? Well, she really had not
been in love, but she had been all unconsciously looking out for love,
and she had fancied that she was falling in love with the Dictator. She
was an enthusiast for his cause; and for his cause because of himself.
With her it was the desire of the moth for the star--of the