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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.

“It is quite over,” she said savagely, springing up, and growing even angrier when she found the rain had really stopped, so that her indignation sounded only like acquiescence. She strode ahead of him, silent, through the wet bracken, her frock growing a limp rag as it brushed aside the glistening ferns.

As she struck the broader path to the house, the cackling laugh of a goat chained to a roadside log followed her cynically. Where had she heard this bleat before? Ah, yes, from the Marquis of Woodham.

III

BALANCEZ

Walter Bassett had spoken truly. He did not admire love–that blind force. Women seemed to him delightfully aesthetic objects–to be kept at a distance, however closely one embraced them. They were unreasoning beings at the best, even when unbiassed by that supreme prejudice–love.

It was not his conception of the strong man that he must needs become as water at some woman’s touch and go dancing and babbling like a sylvan brook. Women were the light of life–he was willing enough to admit it, but one must be able to switch the light on and off at will. All these were reasons for not falling in love–they were not reasons for not marrying. And so, Amber being determined to marry him, there was really less difficulty than if it had been necessary for him to fall in love with her.

It took, however, many letters and interviews, full of the subtlest comedy, infinite advancing and retiring, and recrossing and bowing, and courtesying and facing and half-turning, before this leap-year dance could end in the solemn Wedding March.

“You know,” she said once, “how I should love the fun of seeing you plough your way through all the mediocrities.”

“That is the means, not the end,” he reminded her, rebukingly. “One only wants the world to swallow one’s pills for the world’s sake.”

“I don’t believe you,” she said frankly. “Else you’d move mountains to get the money for the pills, not turn up your nose at the mountain when it comes to you.”