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Few, indeed, were the recalcitrants who could resist Amber’s smiles, or her still more seductive sulkiness. Walter Bassett’s many enemies declared that the young Cabinet Minister owed his career entirely to his wife. His admirers indignantly pointed out that he had represented Highmead for two sessions before he met Miss Roan. The germ of truth in this was that he had stipulated to himself that he would not accept the contract unless Amber, too, must admit “Value received,” and in contributing a career already self-launched, and a good old Huntingdon name, his pride was satisfied. This, however, had wasted a year or so, while the Government was getting itself turned out, and it never entered his brain that his crushing victory at the General Election could owe anything to a corner in votes–at five dollars a head–secretly made by a fair American financier.

It was in the thick of the season, and Amber had just said good-bye to the Bishop, the last of her dinner-guests. “I always say grace when the church goes,” she laughed, as she turned to her budget of unread correspondence and shuffled the letters, as in the old days, when she hoped to draw a letter of Walter’s. But her method had become more scientific. Recognising the writers by their crests or mottoes, she would arrange the letters in order of precedence, alleging it was to keep her hand in, otherwise she would always be making the most horrible mistakes in “your Mediaeval British etiquette.”

“Who goes first to-night?” said her husband, watching her movements from a voluptuous arm-chair.

“Only Lady Chelmer,” Amber yawned, as she broke the seal.

“Didn’t I see the scrawl of the Honourable Tolly?”

“Yes, poor dear. I do so want to know if he is happy in British Honduras. But he must take his turn.”

“If he had taken his turn,” Walter laughed, “he never would have got the appointment there.”

“No, poor dear; it was very good of you.”

“Of me?” Walter’s tone was even more amused. His eyes roved round the vast drawing-room, as if with the thought that he had as little to do with its dignified grandeur. Then his gaze rested once more on his wife; she seemed a delicious harmony of silks and flowers and creamy flesh-tones.

“Mrs. Bassett,” he said softly, lingering on the proprietorial term.

“Yes, Walter,” she said, not looking up from her letter.

“Do you realise this is the first time we have been alone together this month?”

“No? Really?” She glanced up absently.

“Never mind that muddle-headed old Chelmer. I dare say she only wants another hundred or two.” He came over, took the letter and her hand with it. “I have a great secret to tell you.”

Now he had captured her attention as well as her hand. Her eyes sparkled. “A Cabinet Secret?” she said.

“Yes. At this moment every newspaper office is in a fever–to-morrow all England will be ringing with the news. It is a thunderbolt.”

She started up, snatching her hand away, every nerve a-quiver with excitement. “And you kept this from me all through dinner?”

“I hadn’t a chance, darling–I came straight from the scrimmage.”

“You won’t gloss it over by calling me novel names. I hate stale thunderbolts. You might have breathed a word in my ear.”

“I shall make amends by beginning with the part that is only for your ear. Do you know what next Monday is?”

“The day you address your constituents, of course. Oh, I see, this thunderbolt is going to change your speech.”

“Is going to change my speech altogether. Next Monday is the seventh anniversary of our wedding.”

“Is it? But what has that to do with your speech at Highmead?”

“Everything.” He smiled mysteriously, then went on softly, “Amber, do you remember our honeymoon?”

She smiled faintly. “Oh, I haven’t quite forgotten.”

“If you had quite forgotten the misery of it, I should be glad.”

“I have quite forgotten.”

“You are kinder than I deserve. But I was so startled to find my career was less to you than a kiss that I was more churlish than I need have been. I even wished that you might have a child, so that you might be taken up with it instead of with me.”