"I am well off. I can give you all the pretty things you want."
"And some day you will be Lord Tranmore?"
"Yes, when my poor father dies," he said, sighing. He felt her fingers
caress his hand again. It was a spirit touch, light and tender.
"And every one says you are so clever--you have such prospects. Perhaps
you will be Prime Minister."
"Well, there's no saying," he threw out, laughing--"if you'll come and
help."
He heard a sob.
"Help! I should be the ruin of you. I should spoil everything. You don't
know the mischief I can do. And I can't help it, it's in my blood."
"You would like the game of politics too much to spoil it, Kitty." His
voice broke and lingered on the name. "You would want to be a great lady
and lead the party."
"Should I? Could you ever teach me how to behave?"
"You would learn by nature. Do you know, Kitty, how clever you are?"
"Yes," she sighed. "I am clever. But there is always something that
hinders--that brings failure."
"How old are you?" he said, laughing. "Eighteen--or eighty?"
Suddenly he put out his arms, enfolding her. And she, still sobbing,
raised her hands, clasped them round his neck, and clung to him like a
child.
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