"I don't know that I have ever been an enthusiast for political women, but there is no doubt that, in approaching the mass of electors, a graceful, affable manner, the manner of the real English lady, is a force not to be despised."
"Mrs. Dallow is a real English lady, and at the same time she's a very political woman," Nick remarked.
"Isn't it rather in the family? I remember once going to see her mother in town and finding the leaders of both parties sitting with her."
"My principal friend, of the others, is her brother Peter. I don't think he troubles himself much about that sort of thing."
"What does he trouble himself about?" Mr. Carteret inquired, with a certain gravity.
"He's in the diplomatic service; he's a secretary in Paris."
"That may be serious," said the old man.
"He takes a great interest in the theatre; I suppose you'll say that may be serious too," Nick added, laughing.
"Oh!" exclaimed Mr. Carteret, looking as if he scarcely understood. Then he continued: "Well, it can't hurt you."
"It can't hurt me?"
"If Mrs. Dallow takes an interest in your interests."
"When a man's in my situation he feels as if nothing could hurt him."
"I'm very glad you're happy," said Mr. Carteret. He rested his mild eyes on our young man, who had a sense of seeing in them for a moment the faint ghost of an old story, the dim revival of a sentiment that had become the memory of a memory. This glimmer of wonder and envy, the
