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She started forward, clenching her hands and staring at him wildly. “Mr. Montague!” she exclaimed.

He did not reply.

There was a long pause. He could hear her breath coming quickly.

“Are you sure?” she whispered.

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“Quite sure,” said he.

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Again there was silence.

“I do not know very much about my father's affairs,” she began, at last. “I cannot reply to what you say. It is very dreadful.”

“Please understand me, Miss Hegan,” said he. “I have no right to force such thoughts upon you; and perhaps I have made a mistake—”

“I should have preferred that you should tell me the truth,” she said quickly.

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“I believed that you would,” he answered. “That was why I spoke.”

“Was what he did so very dreadful?” asked the girl, in a low voice.

“I would prefer not to answer,” said he. “I cannot judge your father. I am simply trying to protect myself. I'm afraid of the grip of this world upon me. I have followed the careers of so many men, one after another. They come into it, and it lays hold of them, and before they know it, they become corrupt. What I have seen here in the Metropolis has filled me with dismay, almost with terror. Every fibre of me cries out against it; and I mean to fight it—to fight it all my life. And so I do not care to make terms with it socially. When I have seen a man doing what I believe to be a dreadful wrong, I cannot go to his home, and shake his hand, and smile, and exchange the commonplaces of life with him.”

It was a long time before Miss Hegan replied. Her voice was trembling.

“Mr. Montague,” she said, “you must not think that I have not been troubled by these things. But what can one do? What is the remedy?”

“I do not know,” he answered. “I wish that I did know. I can only tell you this, that I do not intend to rest until I have found out.”

“What are you going to do?” she asked.

He replied: “I am going into politics. I am going to try to teach the people.”

In a day in June, at the hour when London moves abroad in quest of lunch, a young man stood at the entrance of the Bandolero Restaurant looking earnestly up Shaftesbury Avenue--a large young man in excellent condition, with a pleasant, good-humoured, brown, clean-cut face. He paid no attention to the stream of humanity that flowed past him. His mouth was set and his eyes wore a serious, almost a wistful expression. He was frowning slightly. One would have said that here was a man with a secret sorrow.

William FitzWilliam Delamere Chalmers, Lord Dawlish, had no secret sorrow. All that he was thinking of at that moment was the best method of laying a golf ball dead in front of the Palace Theatre. It was his habit to pass the time in mental golf when Claire Fenwick was late in keeping her appointments with him. On one occasion she had kept him waiting so long that he had been able to do nine holes, starting at the Savoy Grill and finishing up near Hammersmith. His was a simple mind, able to amuse itself with simple things.