On others it might have been a queen laying her immutable
commands upon some loyal subject, sworn to her service. Part of it might
have been written by a laughing philosopher who had learnt the folly of
taking life too seriously, knowing that all things pass: that the tears
of to-day will be remembered with a smile. And a part of it was the
unconsidered language of a loving woman. And those were the pages that
he kissed.
His letter in answer was much shorter. Of course he would obey her
wishes. He had been selfish, thinking only of himself. As for his
political career, he did not see how that was going to suffer by his
being occasionally seen in company with one of the most brilliantly
intellectual women in London, known to share his views. And he didn't
care if it did. But inasmuch as she valued it, all things should be
sacrificed to it. It was hers to do what she would with. It was the
only thing he had to offer her.
Their meetings became confined, as before, to the little house in North
Street. But it really seemed as if the gods, appeased by their
submission, had decided to be kind.
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