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“No, I’m not a statue; but I’m not a windmill. The mortgages have all found their way into the hands of one person—a devouring wolf, a very rich, a very sharp man of money. He holds me at his mercy. He consents to make things comfortable for me, but he requires that in return I shall do something for him that—sticks in my crop.”
“Do you mean something wrong?”
He had not a moment’s hesitation. “Exceedingly so!”
“Anything immoral?”
“Yes—I may literally call it immoral.”
She courted the strict truth. “Too bad to tell?”
“He wants me to give up––” He faltered.
“Give up what?”
He quite blushed as he came to the point. “My fundamental views.”
She was disappointed. “Nothing but them?”
He met her with astonishment. “Surely they’re quite enough, when one has unfortunately so very many!”
She laughed aloud. “Well, I’ve a neat collection too, but I’d ‘swap’ the whole set––!” She looked about the hall, then pointed to the great cave of the fireplace. “I’d take that set!”
“The fire-irons?”
“For the whole fundamental lot! They’re three hundred years old.”
“Have anything like that age? No, thank God—my views are quite in their prime! They keep me awake at night.”
“Then you must make up your sleep! Listen to me!”
“That would scarce be the way!” He added more sincerely: “You must surely see a fellow can’t chuck his politics.”
“I’d sacrifice mine,” she cried, “for that old fire-back with your arms!”
He glanced at the object with such want of intelligence that she visibly resented it. “See how it has stood!”
“See how I’ve stood!” he answered with spirit. “I’ve glowed with a hotter fire than anything in any chimney. How can I consent to reduce them to the state of that desolate hearth?”
His companion had walked over to the chimney-corner, lost in her deeper impression. At last she turned away. “It’s magnificent! I don’t understand your haggling.”
He hesitated. “That’s because you’re ignorant of what’s behind my reserves.”
“What is behind them?”
“My whole political history. Every scorching address, every letter reproduced in all the papers. I’m a pure, passionate, pledged Radical.”
Mrs. Gracedew looked him full in the face. “Well, what if you are?”
He broke into mirth. “Simply this—that I can’t therefore, from one day to the other, pop up at Gossage in the purple pomp of the opposite camp. There’s a want of transition.”
“Have you thought very much about what Mr. Prodmore wants you to do?” she asked, smoothing the corner of an old rug with her foot.
He flushed up. “Oh, then, you know it’s he?”
“I’m not of an intelligence absolutely infantile.”
He gave up with a shrug. “It’s he who’s the devouring wolf? It’s he who holds your mortgages?”
“He holds plenty of others, and he treats me very handsomely.”
“Do you call that handsome—such a condition?”
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