"Well," said he stolidly, "it's enough for me. Since it is that or nothing. I am your friend—till you tell me I am something more."
"But it is ended. I have no more responsibility. I have told you to go. You know you ought to marry. You are going into Parliament. You will be a Minister. You'll have to have a house and to give parties. Political people ought to be married. They shouldn't go dangling after girls"
"Not after girls—after a girl."
"Well, they shouldn't dangle after a girl. It's undignified—especially after such a girl as I am—no money, no connections—except Horace. I suppose, being a lord, though an impoverished one, counts for something—a girl who only keeps a Kanaka boy in the kitchen, and has to make the jam and clean her own boots—oh yes, I assure you, Ina and I have often cleaned our own boots. It's well it's cheap, as Horace says."
They both laughed. Just then someone struck a few chords on the piano. It was Lord Horace. And presently someone began to sing. This was not Lord Horace, who had a nice little baritone, but not a voice like this. And Lord Horace's French—though he only aired it occasionally in quotations, was shaky; while even Elsie, who had only had a dozen lessons from a French Sister in the convent at Leichardt's Town, could tell that Mr. Dominic Trant had lived in France.
Thanks to the Sister, she could understand every word.
"Ninon, Ninon, que fais tu de la vie?"
It seemed an appeal to herself. How could such a person sing like that? She asked herself the question as she got up from her chair and went into the parlour. Mr. Dominic Trant looked at her while he sang. His eyes had something mesmeric in them. Irish eyes occasionally have. The man was certainly good-looking, and he did give one a sense of power. The effect that he had, however, was not quite pleasant. It was the power of a certain sort of passion—not
