"I say, it's rough on her, isn't it?"

Then he was confused, hurriedly offered Gaston a cigarette, a hasty good-
bye was said, and they parted. Gaston went first to Lord Faramond. He
encountered inquisition, cynical humour, flashes of sympathy, with a
general flavour of reproach. The tradition of the Commons! Ah, one way
only: he must come back alone--alone--and live it down. Fortunately, it
wasn't an intrigue--no matter of divorce--a dompteuse, he believed. It
must end, of course, and he would see what could be done. Such a chance
--such a chance as he had had! Make it up with his grandfather, and
reverse the record--reverse the record: that was the only way. This
meeting must, of course, be strictly between themselves. But he was
really interested for him, for his people, and for the tradition of the
Commons.

"I am Master of the Hounds too," said Gaston dryly. Lord Faramond caught
the meaning, and smiled grimly.

Then came Gaston's decision--he would come back--not to live the thing
down, but to hold his place as long as he could: to fight.

Lord Faramond shrugged a shoulder. "Without her?"

"I cannot say that."

"With her, I can promise nothing--nothing. You cannot fight it so.
No one man is stronger than massed opinion. It is merely a matter of
pressure. No, no; I can promise nothing in that case."

The Premier's face had gone cold and disdainful. Why should a clever