"Women, not measures," said the reigning wit anent the administration
which Amber's Salon held together, and in which her husband occupied a
position quite disproportionate to his nominal office, and still
more so to the almost unparalleled brevity of his career as a private
member.
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?"