For, at the best of times,
Beatrice--in common with most of her sex--in all gratitude be it said,
was _not_ an ardent politician.
There Geoffrey sat, his arms folded--the hat pushed slightly from his
forehead, so that she could see his face. There was her own beloved,
whom she had come so far to see, and whom to-morrow she would dare
so much to save. How sad he looked--he did not seem to be paying
much attention to what was going on. She knew well enough that he was
thinking of her; she could feel it in her head as she had often felt it
before. But she dared not let her mind go out to him in answer, for, if
once she did so, she knew also that he would discover her. So she sat,
and fed her eyes upon his face, taking her farewell of it, while round
her, and beneath her, the hum of the House went on, as ever present and
as unnoticed as the hum of bees upon a summer noon.
Presently the gentleman who had been so kind to her, sat down in
the next seat to Geoffrey, and began to whisper to him, as he did so
glancing once or twice towards the grating behind which she was.
She guessed that he was telling him the story of the lady who was so
unaccountably anxious to hear the debate, and how pretty she was.
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