“Oh, you dear fool,” she thought.  Hadn’t she had heaps of Power from childhood—­over her stern old father, over her weakling mother, over her governesses, and later over the whole tribe of “the boys,” and now in Europe over Marquises and Honourables—­and could it all compare in intensity to this delicious, poignant sense of being caught up into a masterful personality!  No, not Power but Powerlessness was life’s central reality; not to turn with iron hand the great wheels of Fate, but to faint at a dear touch, to be sucked up as a moth in the flame.  And for him, too, it were surely as sweet to leave this strenuous quest for dominance, or to be content with dominating her alone.  Oh, she would bring him to clear vision, to live for nothing but her, even as she asked for nothing but him.

The harsh scream of a bluejay struck a discord through her reverie.  She remembered that he had yet to be won.

“But didn’t you tell me people can’t get power without money?” she said, forgetting the hiatus in the conversation.

“Nor with it generally,” he replied, without surprise.  “Money is but a lever.  You cannot move the earth unless you have force and fulcrum, too.”

“But I guess a man like you must get real mad to see so many levers lying about idle.”

“Oh, I shall get on without a lever, like primitive man.  I have muscles.”

“But it seems too bad not to be able to afford machinery.”

“I shall be hand-made.”

“Yes, and by your own hand.  But won’t it be slow?”

“It will be sure.”

Every one of his speeches rang like the stroke of a hammer.  Yes, indeed he had muscles.

“But how much surer with money!  You ought to turn your career into a company.  Surely it would pay a dividend to its promoters.”

“The directors would interfere.”

“You could be chairman—­with a veto.”

He shook his head.  “The rain is dripping through your umbrella.  Don’t you think we might run to the house?”

“It’s only an old hat.”  It was fresh from Paris, broad-brimmed, beautiful, and bewitching.  “Why don’t you find”—­she smiled nervously—­“a millionaire of means?”

“And what would be his reward?”

“Just Virtue’s.  Won’t you be a light to England?  And isn’t it the duty of parishes and millionaires to supply light?” She was plucking a fern-leaf to pieces.

“Millionaires’ minds don’t run that way.”

“Not male millionaires, perhaps,” she said, turning her face from him so jerkily that she shook the oak-shrub and it became a shower-bath.

He looked at her, slightly startled.  It was the first emotion she had ever provoked in him, and her heart beat faster.

“I really do think it is giving over now,” he said, gazing at her sopping hat.

’Twas as if he had shaken the shrub again and drenched her with cold water.  He was mocking her, her and her dollars and her love.