the top bar and became lost in the inspection of the cord of his glasses. I went toward him.
"I knew," I said, "that you could not listen to . . . to the sort of thing. But there were reasons. I felt forced. You will forgive me." He looked up at me, starting as if he had forgotten my presence.
"Yes, yes," he said, "I have a certain—I can't think of the right word—say respect—for your judgment and—and motives . . . But you see, there are, for instance, my colleagues. I couldn't go to them . . ." He lost the thread of his idea.
"To tell the truth," I said, with a sudden impulse for candour, "it isn't the political aspect of the matter, but the personal. I spoke because it was just possible that I might be of service to you—personally—and because I would like you . . . to make a good fight for it." I had borrowed her own words.
He looked up at me and smiled. "Thank you," he said. "I believe you think it's a losing game," he added, with a touch of gray humour that was like a genial hour of sunlight on a wintry day. I did not answer. A little way down
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