"Don't stand there, come and sit here,--near me. I've
written you three letters, but you don't seem to understand yet that I
want to see you." He took the chair near her to which she had pointed;
she looked at him, evidently with both pleasure and amusement. "You don't
look the least as if you'd been electioneering," she told him in an
admiring congratulatory tone.
"I've had the egg-marks brushed off," he explained with the insincere
gravity that he knew she liked.
"Will they brush off? Will they always brush off?" she asked, her voice
low, her hands nursing her knee, her eyes on his.
"Parables, my lady?"
"Yes. Do you know that we won the election because rosy Sir Winterton was
supposed to have flirted with his keeper's daughter, and wouldn't say he
hadn't, and wouldn't bring that dear soul where anybody was likely to say
he had?"
"No, I hadn't heard that. I thought your husband's----"
"Oh, yes, all that helped. He was splendid. But we shouldn't have done it
without the keeper's daughter."
"_Vox populi, vox Dei_; they're both so hard to understand.
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