"A vow," she answered,—"a vow to my dead husband. “I believe,” he said, “that you mean me to be Prime Minister. I am not sure, but I believe that he has just thought of something. That shining slope of snow, and how we talked of death! We might have died! Even when we are old, when we are rich as we may be, we won’t forget the tune when we cared nothing for anything but the joy of one another, when we risked everything for one another, when all the wrappings and coverings seemed to have fallen from life and left it light and fire. It’s a world in which the law can be a stupid pig and the police-stations dirty dens. A bobbing lantern, crossing the bridge—for she had not drawn the curtain—attracted her attention. When I think of those ateliers of ours, the art jargon, the decadents with their flamboyant talk I long for a twoedged sword and a minute of Divinity. Sooner or later we’ll certainly do something to clean those prisons you told me about—limewash the underside of life. ’ ‘I still think you ought to have waited, miss. Almost light-heartedly.
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