leanor and of Lola's frank avowal of her feelings towards me before
what I shall always regard as my death. It is true that we had never
alluded to it since my resurrection; but what of that? Lola's feelings,
I was sure, remained unaltered. It also flashed on me that, with all the
goodwill in the world, Eleanor would not understand Lola. An interview
would develop into a duel. I pictured it for a second, and my sudden
fierce partisanship for Lola staggered me. Decidedly an acquaintance
between these two was preposterous.

The silence was definite enough to mark a period, but not long enough to
cause embarrassment. Eleanor commented on my present employment. I must
find it good to get back to politics.

"I find it to the contrary," said I, with a laugh. "My convictions,
always lukewarm, are now stone-cold. I don't say that the principles of
the party are wrong. But they're wrong for me, which is all-important.
If they are not right for me, what care I how right they be? And as I
don't believe in those of the other side, I'm going to give up politics
altogether."

"What will you do?"

"I don't know. I honestly don't. But I have an insistent premonition
that I shall soon find myself doing something utterly idiotic, which to
me will be the most real thing in life."

I had indeed awakened that morning with an exhilarating thrill of
anticipation, comparable to that of the mountain climber who knows not
what panorama of glory may be disclosed to his eyes when he reaches the
summit. I had whistled in my bath--a most unusual thing.

"Are you going to turn Socialist?"

"_Qui lo sa_? I'm willing to turn anything alive and honest. It doesn't
matter what a man professes so long as he professes it with all the
faith of all his soul."

I broke into a laugh, for the echo of my words rang comic in my ears.

"Why do you laugh?" she asked.

"Don't you think it funny to hear me talk like a two-penny Carlyle?"

"Not a bit," she said seriously.

"I can't undertake to talk like that always," I said warningly.

"I thought you said you were going to be serious."

"So I am--but platitudinous--Heaven forbid!"

The little clock on the mantelpiece struck six. Eleanor rose in alarm.

"How the time has flown! I must be getting back. Well?"

Our eyes met. "Well?" said I.

"Are we ever to meet again?"

"It's for you to say."

"No," she said. And then very distinctly, very deliberately, "It's for
you."

I understood. She made