He felt most unpleasantly tame.
"You wouldn't care to make your home out yonder?"
"Heaven forbid!"
This was better. It sounded like emphatic rejection of Trafford
Romaine, and probably was meant to sound so.
"I myself," he pursued absently, "shall always live in England. If I
know myself, I can be of most service at the centre of things.
Parliament, when the moment arrives----"
"The moment when you can be most mischievous?" said Irene, with a
glance at him.
"That's how you put it. Yes, most mischievous. The sphere for
mischief is growing magnificent."
He talked, without strict command of his tongue, just to gain time;
spoke of expanding Britain, and so on, a dribble of commonplaces.
Irene moved as if to rejoin her company.
"Don't go just yet--I want you--now and always."
Sheer nervousness gave his voice a tremor as if of deep emotion.
These simple words, which had burst from him desperately, were the
best he could have uttered--Irene stood with her eyes on the
darkening horizon.
"We know each other pretty well," he continued, "and the better we
know each other, the more we find to talk about. It's a very good
sign--don't you think? I can't see how I'm to get along without
you, after this journey. I don't like to think of it, and I _won't_
think of it I Say there's no need to."
Her silence, her still attitude, had restored his courage. He spoke
at length like himself, with quiet assurance, with sincerity; and
again it was the best thing he could have done.
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