very essence of politics, high-priests of caste and
authority, like you, Lord Miltoun, are every bit as much out of it as
any Liberal professor."

"I don't agree!"

"Agree or not, your position towards public affairs is very like the
Church's attitude towards marriage and divorce; as remote from the
realities of life as the attitude of the believer in Free Love, and
not more likely to catch on. The death of your point of view lies in
itself--it's too dried-up and far from things ever to understand them.
If you don't understand you can never rule. You might just as well keep
your hands in your pockets, as go into politics with your notions!"

"I fear we must continue to agree to differ."

"Well; perhaps I do pay you too high a compliment. After all, you are a
patrician."

"You speak in riddles, Mr. Courtier."

The dark-eyed woman stirred; her hands gave a sort of flutter, as though
in deprecation of acerbity.

Rising at once, and speaking in a deferential voice, the elder man said:

"We're tiring Mrs. Noel. Good-night, Audrey, It's high time I was off."
Against the darkness of the open French window, he turned round to fire
a parting shot.

"What I meant, Lord Miltoun, was that your class is the driest and most
practical in the State--it's odd if it doesn't save you from a poet's
dreams. Good-night!" He passed out on to the lawn, and vanished.

The young man sat unmoving; the glow of the fire had caught his face, so
that a spirit seemed clinging round his lips, gleaming out of his eyes.
Suddenly he said:

"Do you believe that, Mrs. Noel?"

For answer Audrey Noel smiled, then rose and went over to the window.

"Look at my dear toad! It comes here every evening!" On a flagstone of
the verandah, in the centre of the stream of lamplight, sat a little
golden toad. As Miltoun came to look, it waddled to one side, and
vanished.

"How peaceful your garden is!" he said; then taking her hand, he very
gently raised it to his lips, and followed his opponent out into the
darkness.

Truly peace brooded over that garden. The Night seemed listening--all
lights out, all hearts at rest. It watched, with a little white star for
every tree, and roof, and slumbering tired flower, as a mother watches
her sleeping child, leaning above him and counting with her love every
hair of his head, and all his tiny tremors.

Argument seemed child's babble indeed under the smile of Night. And the
face of the woman, left alone at her