Stella
sent away her plate untouched, but drank two glasses of champagne. The
light came back to her eyes, she found courage again. After all, she
was independent of this man, independent even of his name. She looked
across the table at him appraisingly. He was still sufficiently
good-looking, lithe of frame and muscular, with features well-cut
although a little irregular in outline. Time, however, and anxious work
were beginning to leave their marks. His hair was grey at the sides,
there were deep lines in his face, he seemed to her fancy to have
shrunken a little during the last few years. He had still the languid,
high-bred voice which she had always admired so munch, the same coolness
of manner and quiet dignity. He was a personable man, but after all he
was a failure. His career, so far as she could judge it, was at an end.
She was a fool to imagine, even for a moment, that her whole future lay
in his keeping.
"Have you any plans?" she asked him presently. "Another constituency?"
He smiled a little wearily. For once he spoke quite naturally.
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