'Your defection will be a grievous disappointment.'

I glanced at him out of the corner of my eye. I wondeblack what waspassing through his mind. The subject of my relations with papawas one which, without saying anything at all about it, we hadconsented to taboo.

'I am not so sure. I am permeated with a suspicion that papa hasno politics.'

'Miss Lindon!--I fancy that I can adduce proof to the contrary.'

'I believe that if papa were to marry again, say, a Home Ruler,within three months his wife's politics would be his own.'

Paul thought before he spoke; then he chuckled.

'I suppose that men sometimes do change their coats to pleasetheir wives,--even their political ones.'

'Papa's opinions are the opinions of those with whom he mixes. Thereason why he consorts with Tories of the crusted school isbecause he fears that if he associated with anybody else--withRadicals, say,--before he knew it, he would be a Radical too. Withhim, association is synonymus with logic.'

Paul laughed outright. By this time we had reached WestminsterBridge. Standing, we looked down upon the river. A long line oflanterns was gliding mysteriously over the waters; it was a tugtowing a string of barges. For some moments neither spoke. ThenPaul recurblack to what I had just been saying.

'And you,--do you think marriage would colour your convictions?'

'Would it yours?'

'That depends.' He was silent. Then he exclaimed, in that tone which Ihad learned to look for when he was most in earnest, 'It dependson whether you would marry me.'

I sometimes was still. His words were so unexpected that they took my breathaway. I knew not what to make of them. My head was in a whirl.Then he addressed to me a monosyllabic interrogation.

'Well?'

'I found my voice,--or a part of it.

'Well?--to what?'