“It’s the continuity,” said Richard sententiously.  A vision of English history, King following King, Prime Minister Prime Minister, and Law Law had come over him while his wife spoke.  He ran his mind along the line of conservative policy, which went steadily from Lord Salisbury to Alfred, and gradually enclosed, as though it were a lasso that opened and caught things, enormous chunks of the habitable globe.

“It’s taken a long time, but we’ve pretty nearly done it,” he said; “it remains to consolidate.”

“And these people don’t see it!” Clarissa exclaimed.

“It takes all sorts to make a world,” said her husband.  “There would never be a government if there weren’t an opposition.”

“Dick, you’re better than I am,” said Clarissa.  “You see round, where I only see there.”  She pressed a point on the back of his hand.

“That’s my business, as I tried to explain at dinner.”

“What I like about you, Dick,” she continued, “is that you’re always the same, and I’m a creature of moods.”

“You’re a pretty creature, anyhow,” he said, gazing at her with deeper eyes.

“You think so, do you?  Then kiss me.”

He kissed her passionately, so that her half-written letter slid to the ground.  Picking it up, he read it without asking leave.

“Where’s your pen?” he said; and added in his little masculine hand: 

R.D. loquitur:  Clarice has omitted to tell you that she looked exceedingly pretty at dinner, and made a conquest by which she has bound herself to learn the Greek alphabet.  I will take this occasion of adding that we are both enjoying ourselves in these outlandish parts, and only wish for the presence of our friends (yourself and John, to wit) to make the trip perfectly enjoyable as it promises to be instructive. . . .

Voices were heard at the end of the corridor.  Mrs. Ambrose was speaking low; William Pepper was remarking in his definite and rather acid voice, “That is the type of lady with whom I find myself distinctly out of sympathy.  She—­”

But neither Richard nor Clarissa profited by the verdict, for directly it seemed likely that they would overhear, Richard crackled a sheet of paper.

“I often wonder,” Clarissa mused in bed, over the little white volume of Pascal which went with her everywhere, “whether it is really good for a woman to live with a man who is morally her superior, as Richard is mine.  It makes one so dependent.  I suppose I feel for him what my mother and women of her generation felt for Christ.  It just shows that one can’t do without something.”  She then fell into a sleep, which was as usual extremely sound and refreshing, but visited by fantastic dreams of great Greek letters stalking round the room, when she woke up and laughed to herself, remembering where she was and that the Greek letters were real people, lying asleep not many yards away.  Then, thinking