’I have explained; I consider papa the politician as one person, and papa the father as quite another.’

‘You are his daughter.’

’Certainly I am;—­but would you, on that account, wish me to share his political opinions, even though I believe them to be wrong?’

‘You love him.’

‘Of course I do,—­he is the best of fathers.’

‘Your defection will be a grievous disappointment.’

I looked at him out of the corner of my eye.  I wondered what was passing through his mind.  The subject of my relations with papa was one which, without saying anything at all about it, we had consented to taboo.

’I am not so sure.  I am permeated with a suspicion that papa has no politics.’

‘Miss Lindon!—­I fancy that I can adduce proof to the contrary.’

’I believe that if papa were to marry again, say, a Home Ruler, within three weeks his wife’s politics would be his own.’

Paul thought before he spoke; then he smiled.

’I suppose that men sometimes do change their coats to please their wives,—­even their political ones.’

’Papa’s opinions are the opinions of those with whom he mixes.  The reason why he consorts with Tories of the crusted school is because he fears that if he associated with anybody else—­with Radicals, say,—­before he knew it, he would be a Radical too.  With him, association is synonymus with logic.’

Paul laughed outright.  By this time we had reached Westminster Bridge.  Standing, we looked down upon the river.  A long line of lanterns was gliding mysteriously over the waters; it was a tug towing a string of barges.  For some moments neither spoke.  Then Paul recurred to what I had just been saying.

‘And you,—­do you think marriage would colour your convictions?’

‘Would it yours?’

‘That depends.’  He was silent.  Then he said, in that tone which I had learned to look for when he was most in earnest, ’It depends on whether you would marry me.’

I was still.  His words were so unexpected that they took my breath away.  I knew not what to make of them.  My head was in a whirl.  Then he addressed to me a monosyllabic interrogation.

‘Well?’

’I found my voice,—­or a part of it.

‘Well?—­to what?’

He came a little closer.

‘Will you be my wife?’

The part of my voice which I had found, was lost again.  Tears came into my eyes.  I shivered.  I had not thought that I could be so absurd.  Just then the moon came from behind a cloud; the rippling waters were tipped with silver.  He spoke again, so gently that his words just reached my ears.

‘You know that I love you.’

Then I knew that I loved him too.  That what I had fancied was a feeling of friendship was something very different.  It was as if somebody, in tearing a veil from before my eyes, had revealed a spectacle which dazzled me.  I was speechless.  He misconstrued my silence.