He walked about the room, muttering maledictions between his teeth and balancing, as best he was able at such a moment, his pride against his profit. "You haven't answered my question," said he. "If I go to the Hall, will you write to Alice?"
"No, George; I cannot write to Alice asking her for the money."
"You won't?"
"I could not bring myself to do it."
"Then, Kate, you and my grandfather may work together for the future. You may get him to leave you the place if you have skill enough."
"That is as undeserved a reproach as any woman ever encountered," said Kate, standing her ground boldly before him. "If you have either heart or conscience, you will feel that it is so."

He walked about the room, cursing between his teeth and balancing his pride against his profit. "If I go to the Hall, will you write to Alice?"
"No, George; I cannot write to Alice asking her for the money."
"Then, Kate, you and my grandfather may work together for the future. You may get him to leave you the place if you have skill enough."
"That is an undeserved reproach," said Kate, standing her ground boldly. "If you have either heart or conscience, you will know it."


"I'm not much troubled with either one or the other, I fancy. Things are being brought to such a pass with me that I am better without them."
"Will you take my money, George; just for the present?"
"No. I haven't much conscience; but I have a little left."
"Will you let me write to Mrs. Greenow?"
"I have not the slightest objection; but it will be of no use whatsoever."
"I will do so, at any rate. And now will you come to the Hall?"

"I'm not much troubled with either one or the other, I fancy. I am better off without them."
"Will you take my money, George; just for the present?"
"No."
"Will you let me write to Mrs. Greenow?"
"I have no objection; but it will be of no use whatsoever."
"I will do so, at any rate. And now will you come to the Hall?"


"To beg that old fool's pardon? No; I won't. In the mood I am in at present, I couldn't do it. I should only anger him worse than ever. Tell him that I've business which calls me back to London at once."
"It is a thousand pities."
"It can't be helped."
"It may make so great a difference to you for your whole life!" urged Kate.

"To beg that old fool's pardon? No; I won't. In the mood I am in at present, I should only anger him worse than ever. Tell him that I've business which calls me back to London at once."
"It is a thousand pities. It may make so great a difference to your whole life!" urged Kate.


"I'll tell you what I'll do," said George. "I'll go to Vavasor and put up with the old squire's insolence, if you'll make this application for me to Alice." I wonder whether it occurred to him that his sister desired his presence at the Hall solely on his own behalf. The same idea certainly did not occur to Kate. She hesitated, feeling that she would almost do anything to achieve a reconciliation between her grandfather and her brother.
"But you'll let me write to Aunt Greenow first," said she. "It will take only two days,--or at the most three?"
To this George consented as though he were yielding a great deal; and Kate, with a sore conscience, with a full knowledge that she was undertaking to do wrong, promised that she would apply to Alice for her money, if sufficient funds should not be forthcoming from Mrs. Greenow. Thereupon, George graciously consented to proceed to his bedroom, and put together his clothes with a view to his visit to the Hall.

"I'll tell you what I'll do," said George. "I'll go to Vavasor and put up with the old squire's insolence, if you'll make this application for me to Alice."
She hesitated, feeling that she would almost do anything to achieve a reconciliation between her grandfather and her brother.
"But let me write to Aunt Greenow first," said she. "It will take only two or three days."
To this George agreed as though he were yielding a great deal; and Kate, with a sore conscience, promised that she would apply to Alice for her money, if funds should not be forthcoming from Mrs. Greenow. Then George graciously consented to pack his clothes before visiting the Hall.


"I thank Providence, Kate, that circumstances make it impossible for me to stay above two days. I have not linen to last me longer."
"We'll manage that for you at the Hall."
"Indeed you won't do anything of the kind. And look, Kate, when I make that excuse don't you offer to do so. I will stay there over to-morrow night, and shall go into Kendal early, so as to catch the express train up on Thursday morning. Don't you throw me over by any counter proposition."

"I shan't stay more than two days," he said. "I will stay there tomorrow night, and go into Kendal early, to catch the express train on Thursday morning."


Then they started together in the car, and very few words were said till they reached the old lodge, which stood at the entrance to the place. "Eh, Mr. George; be that you?" said the old woman, who came out to swing back for them the broken gate. "A sight of you is good for sair een." It was the same welcome that the inn-keeper had given him, and equally sincere. George had never made himself popular about the place, but he was the heir.
"I suppose you had better go into the drawing-room," said Kate; "while I go to my grandfather. You won't find a fire there."

They spoke very little on the way, until they reached the old lodge at the entrance to the place.
"Eh, Mr. George; be that you?" said the old woman who came out to swing back the broken gate. "A sight of you is good for sair een." It was the same welcome that the inn-keeper had given him, and equally sincere. George had never made himself popular about the place, but he was the heir.


"Manage it how you please; but don't keep me in the cold very long. Heavens, what a country house! The middle of January, and no fires in the room."
"And remember, George, when you see him you must say that you regret that you ever displeased him. Now that you are here, don't let there be any further misunderstanding."
"I think it very probable that there will be," said George. "I only hope he'll let me have the old horse to take me back to Shap if there is. There he is at the front door, so I shan't have to go into the room without a fire."
The old man was standing at the hall steps when the car drove up, as though to welcome his grandson. He put out his hand to help Kate down the steps, keeping his eye all the time on George's face.

"Remember, George," said Kate on the road up to the house; "when you see our grandfather you must say that you regret that you ever displeased him. Don't let there be any further misunderstanding."
"I think it very probable that there will be," said George. "I only hope he'll let me have the old horse to take me back to Shap if there is. There he is at the front door now."
The old man was standing at the hall steps when they car drove up, as though to welcome his grandson. He put out his hand to help Kate down the steps, keeping his eye on George's face.


"So you've come back," the squire said to him.
[Illustration: "So you've come back, have you?" said the Squire.]
"Yes, sir;--I've come back, like the prodigal son in the parable."
"The prodigal son was contrite. I hope you are so."
"Pretty well for that, sir. I'm sorry there has been any quarrel, and all that, you know."

"So you've come back," the squire said to him.
"Yes, sir; like the prodigal son in the parable."
"The prodigal son was contrite. I hope you are."
"Pretty well, sir. I'm sorry there has been any quarrel, and all that, you know."


"Go in," said the squire, very angrily. "Go in. To expect anything gracious from you would be to expect pearls from swine. Go in."
George went in, shrugging his shoulders as his eyes met his sister's. It was in this fashion that the reconciliation took place between Squire Vavasor and his heir.

"Go in," said the squire, very angrily. "Go in. To expect anything gracious from you would be to expect pearls from swine."
George went in, shrugging his shoulders as his eyes met his sister's. It was in this fashion that the reconciliation took place between Squire Vavasor and his heir.


Gentle reader, do you remember Lady Monk's party, and how it ended,--how it ended, at least as regards those special guests with whom we are concerned? Mr. Palliser went away early, Mrs. Marsham followed him to his house in Park Lane, caught him at home, and told her tale. He returned to his wife, found her sitting with Burgo in the dining-room, under the Argus eyes of the constant Bott, and bore her away home. Burgo disappeared utterly from the scene, and Mr. Bott, complaining inwardly that virtue was too frequently allowed to be its own reward, comforted himself with champagne, and then walked off to his lodgings. Lady Monk, when Mr. Palliser made his way into her room up-stairs, seeking his wife's scarf,--which little incident, also, the reader may perhaps remember,--saw that the game was up, and thought with regret of the loss of her two hundred pounds. Such was the ending of Lady Monk's party.

Gentle reader, do you remember Lady Monk's party, and how it ended? Mr. Palliser went away early, and Mrs. Marsham followed him to his house in Park Lane and told her tale. He returned to his wife, found her sitting with Burgo in the dining-room, under the eye of Mr. Bott, and bore her away home. Burgo disappeared, and Mr. Bott comforted himself with champagne, and then walked off to his lodgings. Lady Monk saw that the game was up, and thought with regret of the loss of her two hundred pounds. Such was the ending of her party.


Lady Glencora, on her journey home in the carriage with her husband, had openly suggested that Mrs. Marsham had gone to Park Lane to tell of her doings with Burgo, and had declared her resolution never again to see either that lady or Mr. Bott in her own house. This she said with more of defiance in her tone than Mr. Palliser had ever hitherto heard. He was by nature less ready than her, and knowing his own deficiency in that respect, abstained from all answer on the subject. Indeed, during that drive home very few further words were spoken between them. "I will breakfast with you to-morrow," he said to her, as she prepared to go up-stairs. "I have work still to do to-night, and I will not disturb you by coming to your room."
"You won't want me to be very early?" said his wife.

Lady Glencora, on her journey home in the carriage with her husband, had declared her resolution never again to see either Mrs. Marsham or Mr. Bott in her own house. This she said with more defiance in her tone than Mr. Palliser had ever heard. He was by nature less ready with words than her, and did not answer. Indeed, during that drive very few words were spoken.
"I will breakfast with you tomorrow," he said, as she prepared to go upstairs. "I have work still to do tonight, and I will not disturb you by coming to your room."
"You won't want me to be very early?" said his wife.


"No," said he, with more of anger in his voice than he had yet shown. "What hour will suit you? I must say something of what has occurred to-night before I leave you to-morrow."
"I don't know what you can have got to say about to-night, but I'll be down by half-past eleven, if that will do?" Mr. Palliser said that he would make it do, and then they parted.
Lady Glencora had played her part very well before her husband. She had declined to be frightened by him; had been the first to mention Burgo's name, and had done so with no tremor in her voice, and had boldly declared her irreconcilable enmity to the male and female duennas who had dared to take her in charge. While she was in the carriage with her husband she felt some triumph in her own strength; and as she wished him good night on the staircase, and slowly walked up to her room, without having once lowered her eyes before his, something of this consciousness of triumph still supported her. And even while her maid remained with her she held herself up, as it were, inwardly, telling herself that she would not yield,--that she would not be cowed either by her husband or by his spies. But when she was left alone all her triumph departed from her.

"No," said he, with more anger in his voice than he had yet shown. "What hour will suit you? I must say something about tonight before I leave you tomorrow."
"I don't know what you can have to say, but I'll be down by half-past eleven, if that will do?"
Mr. Palliser said that it would, and then they parted.
Lady Glencora had played her part very well before her husband. She had declined to be frightened by him, and had boldly declared her enmity to Mrs. Marsham and Mr. Bott. She felt some triumph in her own strength; and as she wished him good night on the staircase, and slowly walked up to her room, this consciousness of triumph still supported her. But when she was left alone all her triumph departed from her.


She bade her maid go while she was still sitting in her dressing-gown; and when the girl was gone she got close over the fire, sitting with her slippers on the fender, with her elbows on her knees, and her face resting on her hands. In this position she remained for an hour, with her eyes fixed on the altering shapes of the hot coals. During this hour her spirit was by no means defiant, and her thoughts of herself anything but triumphant. Mr. Bott and Mrs. Marsham she had forgotten altogether. After all, they were but buzzing flies, who annoyed her by their presence. Should she choose to leave her husband, they could not prevent her leaving him. It was of her husband and of Burgo that she was thinking,--weighing them one against the other, and connecting her own existence with theirs, not as expecting joy or the comfort of love from either of them, but with an assured conviction that on either side there must be misery for her. But of that shame before all the world which must be hers for ever, should she break her vows and consent to live with a man who was not her husband, she thought hardly at all. That which in the estimation of Alice was everything, to her, at this moment, was almost nothing. For herself, she had been sacrificed; and,--as she told herself with bitter denunciations against herself,--had been sacrificed through her own weakness.

She bade her maid go, and then she sat close over the fire, with her slippers on the fender, her elbows on her knees, and her face resting on her hands. In this position she remained for an hour, with her eyes fixed on the coals. Her thoughts were anything but triumphant. She had forgotten Mr. Bott and Mrs. Marsham altogether. It was of her husband and of Burgo that she was thinking - weighing them one against the other, and connecting her own existence with theirs, not expecting joy or the comfort of love from either, but with a conviction that on either side there must be misery for her.
But of that shame before all the world, if she should break her vows and live with a man who was not her husband, she thought hardly at all. It was almost nothing to her. For herself, she had been sacrificed; and - as she bitterly told herself - through her own weakness.


But that was done. Whatever way she might go, she was lost. They had married her to a man who cared nothing for a wife, nothing for any woman,--so at least she declared to herself,--but who had wanted a wife that he might have an heir. Had it been given to her to have a child, she thought that she might have been happy,--sufficiently happy in sharing her husband's joy in that respect. But everything had gone against her. There was nothing in her home to give her comfort. "He looks at me every time he sees me as the cause of his misfortune," she said to herself. Of her husband's rank, of the future possession of his title and his estates, she thought much. But of her own wealth she thought nothing. It did not occur to her that she had given him enough in that respect to make his marriage with her a comfort to him.

But that was done. Whatever way she might go, she was lost. They had married her to a man who cared nothing for a wife, nothing for any woman - so she declared to herself - but who had needed a wife so that he might have an heir. If she had had a child, she thought that she might have been happy enough. But there was nothing in her home to give her comfort.
"He sees me as the cause of his misfortune," she said to herself. Of her husband's rank, of the future of his title and his estates, she thought much. But of her own wealth she thought nothing. It did not occur to her that she had given him enough wealth to make his marriage a comfort to him.


She took it for granted that that marriage was now one distasteful to him, as it was to herself, and that he would eventually be the gainer if she should so conduct herself that her marriage might be dissolved.
[Illustration: Lady Glencora.]

She took it for granted that the marriage was now distasteful to him, as it was to herself, and that he would eventually be the gainer if she led it to be dissolved.


As to Burgo, I doubt whether she deceived herself much as to his character. She knew well enough that he was a man infinitely less worthy than her husband. She knew that he was a spendthrift, idle, given to bad courses,--that he drank, that he gambled, that he lived the life of the loosest man about the town. She knew also that whatever chance she might have had to redeem him, had she married him honestly before all the world, there could be no such chance if she went to him as his mistress, abandoning her husband and all her duties, and making herself vile in the eyes of all women. Burgo Fitzgerald would not be influenced for good by such a woman as she would then be. She knew much of the world and its ways, and told herself no lies about this. But, as I have said before, she did not count herself for much. What though she were ruined? What though Burgo were false, mean, and untrustworthy? She loved him, and he was the only man she ever had loved!

As for Burgo, she knew well enough that he was a man much less worthy than her husband. She knew that he was an idle spendthrift - that he drank, gambled, and lived the life of the loosest man about town. She knew also that she could not redeem him if she went to him as his mistress, abandoning her husband and all her duties. Burgo Fitzgerald would not be influenced for good by such a woman as she would then be. She told herself no lies about this.
But, as I have said before, she did not count herself for much. What though she were ruined? What though Burgo were untrustworthy? She loved him, and he was the only man she had ever loved!


Lower and lower she crouched before the fire; and then, when the coals were no longer red, and the shapes altered themselves no more, she crept into bed. As to what she should say to her husband on the following morning,--she had not yet begun to think of that.
Exactly at half-past eleven she entered the little breakfast parlour which looked out over the park. It was the prettiest room in the house, and now, at this springtide, when the town trees were putting out their earliest greens, and were fresh and bright almost as country trees, it might be hard to find a prettier chamber. Mr. Palliser was there already, sitting with the morning paper in his hand. He rose when she entered, and, coming up to her, just touched her with his lips. She put her cheek up to him, and then took her place at the breakfast table.
"Have you any headache this morning?" he asked.

Lower and lower she crouched before the fire; and then, when the coals were no longer glowing, she crept into bed. As to what she should say to her husband on the following morning, she had not yet begun to think of that.
Exactly at half-past eleven she entered the pretty little breakfast parlour which looked out over the park. Mr. Palliser was there already, sitting with the morning paper in his hand. He rose when she entered, and, coming up to her, just touched her with his lips. She put her cheek up to him, and then took her place at the breakfast table.
"Have you any headache this morning?" he asked.


"Oh, no," she said. Then he took his tea and his toast, spoke some word to her about the fineness of the weather, told her some scraps of news, and soon returned to the absorbing interest of a speech made by the leader of the Opposition in the House of Lords. The speech was very interesting to Mr. Palliser, because in it the noble lord alluded to a break-up in the present Cabinet, as to which the rumours were, he said, so rife through the country as to have destroyed all that feeling of security in the existing Government which the country so much valued and desired. Mr. Palliser had as yet heard no official tidings of such a rupture; but if such rupture were to take place, it must be in his favour. He felt himself at this moment to be full of politics,--to be near the object of his ambition, to have affairs upon his hands which required all his attention. Was it absolutely incumbent on him to refer again to the incidents of last night? The doing so would be odious to him. The remembrance of the task now immediately before him destroyed all his political satisfaction. He did not believe that his wife was in any serious danger. Might it not yet be possible for him to escape from the annoyance, and to wash his mind clean of all suspicion?

"Oh, no," she said. Then he took his tea and toast, spoke a word about the fineness of the weather, told her some scraps of news, and soon returned to the absorbing interest of a speech made by the leader of the Opposition in the House of Lords. The speech was very interesting to Mr. Palliser, because in it the noble lord alluded to a break-up in the present Cabinet, about which rumours were rife. Mr. Palliser had heard no official news of such a rupture; but if one were to take place, it must be in his favour. He felt himself to be near the object of his ambition, to have affairs upon his hands which required all his attention.
Did he really need to refer again to the incidents of last night? Doing so would be odious to him. He did not believe that his wife was in any serious danger.


He was not jealous; he was indeed incapable of jealousy. He knew what it would be to be dishonoured, and he knew that under certain circumstances the world would expect him to exert himself in a certain way. But the thing that he had now to do was a great trouble to him. He would rather have to address the House of Commons with ten columns of figures than utter a word of remonstrance to his wife. But she had defied him,--defied him by saying that she would see his friends no more; and it was the remembrance of this, as he sat behind his newspaper, that made him ultimately feel that he could not pass in silence over what had been done.

He was not jealous; he was indeed incapable of jealousy. He knew what it would be to be dishonoured, and he knew that under certain circumstances the world would expect him to exert himself in a certain way
But the thing that he had now to do was a great trouble to him. He would rather address the House of Commons with ten columns of figures than utter a word of remonstrance to his wife. But she had defied him by saying that she would see his friends no more; and it was this that made him feel that he could not pass over it in silence.


Nevertheless, he went on reading, or pretending to read, as long as the continuance of the breakfast made it certain that his wife would remain with him. Every now and then he said some word to her of what he was reading, endeavouring to use the tone of voice that was customary to him in his domestic teachings of politics. But through it all there was a certain hesitation,--there were the sure signs of an attempt being made, of which he was himself conscious, and which she understood with the most perfect accuracy. He was deferring the evil moment, and vainly endeavouring to make himself believe that he was comfortably employed the while. She had no newspaper, and made no endeavour to deceive herself. She, therefore, was the first to begin the conversation.
"Plantagenet," she said, "you told me last night, as I was going to bed, that you had something to say about Lady Monk's party."
He put down the newspaper slowly, and turned towards her. "Yes, my dear. After what happened, I believe that I must say something."

Nevertheless, he went on pretending to read. Every now and then he said some word to her of what he was reading, trying to use his usual tone of voice. But there was a certain hesitation - a sign of effort - of which he was himself conscious, and which she understood with perfect accuracy. He was putting off the evil moment. She, therefore, was the first to begin the conversation.
"Plantagenet," she said, "you told me last night that you had something to say about Lady Monk's party."
He put down the newspaper slowly, and turned towards her. "Yes, my dear."


"If you think anything, pray say it," said Glencora.
"It is not always easy for a man to show what he thinks by what he says," he replied. "My fear is that you should suppose me to think more than I do. And it was for that reason that I determined to sleep on it before I spoke to you."
"If anybody is angry with me I'd much rather they should have it out with me while their anger is hot. I hate cold anger."
"But I am not angry."
"That's what husbands always say when they're going to scold."
"But I am not going to scold. I am only going to advise you."


"I'd sooner be scolded. Advice is to anger just what cold anger is to hot."
"But, my dear Glencora, surely if I find it necessary to speak--"
"I don't want to stop you, Plantagenet. Pray, go on. Only it will be so nice to have it over."

"I'd sooner be scolded. Advice is to anger just what cold anger is to hot."
"But, my dear Glencora, surely if I find it necessary to speak-"
"I don't want to stop you, Plantagenet. Pray, go on. Only it will be so nice to have it over."


He was now more than ever averse to the task before him. Husbands, when they give their wives a talking, should do it out of hand, uttering their words hard, sharp, and quick,--and should then go. There are some works that won't bear a preface, and this work of marital fault-finding is one of them. Mr. Palliser was already beginning to find out the truth of this. "Glencora," he said, "I wish you to be serious with me."
"I am very serious," she replied, as she settled herself in her chair with an air of mockery, while her eyes and mouth were bright and eloquent with a spirit which her husband did not love to see. Poor girl! There was seriousness enough in store for her before she would be able to leave the room.
"You ought to be serious. Do you know why Mrs. Marsham came here from Lady Monk's last night?"

He was now more than ever averse to the task before him. There are some works that won't bear a preface, and this work of marital fault-finding is one of them.
"Glencora," he said, "I wish you to be serious with me."
"I am very serious," she replied with an air of mockery, while her eyes and mouth were bright and eloquent with a spirit which her husband did not love to see.
"You ought to be serious. Do you know why Mrs. Marsham came here from Lady Monk's last night?"


"Of course I do. She came to tell you that I was waltzing with Burgo Fitzgerald. You might as well ask me whether I knew why Mr. Bott was standing at all the doors, glaring at me."
"I don't know anything about Mr. Bott."
"I know something about him though," she said, again moving herself in her chair.
"I am speaking now of Mrs. Marsham."
"You should speak of them both together as they hunt in couples."
"Glencora, will you listen to me, or will you not? If you say that you will not, I shall know what to do."

"Of course I do. She came to tell you that I was waltzing with Burgo Fitzgerald. You might as well ask me whether I knew why Mr. Bott was standing at all the doors, glaring at me."
"I don't know anything about Mr. Bott. I am speaking of Mrs. Marsham."
"You should speak of them together as they hunt in couples."
"Glencora, will you listen to me? If you say that you will not, I shall know what to do."


"I don't think you would, Plantagenet." And she nodded her little head at him, as she spoke. "I'm sure I don't know what you would do. But I will listen to you. Only, as I said before, it will be very nice when it's over."
"Mrs. Marsham came here, not simply to tell me that you were waltzing with Mr. Fitzgerald,--and I wish that when you mention his name you would call him Mr. Fitzgerald."
"So I do."
"You generally prefix his Christian name, which it would be much better that you should omit."
"I will try," she said, very gently; "but it's hard to drop an old habit. Before you married me you knew that I had learned to call him Burgo."

"I don't think you would, Plantagenet." And she nodded her little head at him, as she spoke. "But I will listen to you."
"Mrs. Marsham came here, not simply to tell me that you were waltzing with Mr. Fitzgerald - and I wish that when you mention his name you would call him Mr. Fitzgerald."
"So I do."
"You generally use his Christian name, which it would be much better that you should omit."
"I will try," she said, very gently; "but it's hard to drop an old habit. Before you married me you knew that I had learned to call him Burgo."


"Let me go on," said Mr. Palliser.
"Oh, certainly."
"It was not simply to tell me that you were waltzing that Mrs. Marsham came here."
"And it was not simply to see me waltzing that Mr. Bott stood in the doorways, for he followed me about, and came down after me to the supper-room."
"Glencora, will you oblige me by not speaking of Mr. Bott?"
"I wish you would oblige me by not speaking of Mrs. Marsham." Mr. Palliser rose quickly from his chair with a gesture of anger, stood upright for half a minute, and then sat down again. "I beg your pardon, Plantagenet," she said. "I think I know what you want, and I'll hold my tongue till you bid me speak."

"Let me go on," said Mr. Palliser. "It was not simply to tell me that you were waltzing that Mrs. Marsham came here."
"And it was not simply to see me waltzing that Mr. Bott stood in the doorways, for he followed me about, and came after me to the supper-room."
"Glencora, will you oblige me by not speaking of Mr. Bott?"
"I wish you would oblige me by not speaking of Mrs. Marsham."
Mr. Palliser rose quickly from his chair with a gesture of anger, stood upright for half a minute, and then sat down again.
"I beg your pardon, Plantagenet," she said. "I'll hold my tongue till you bid me speak."


"Mrs. Marsham came here because she saw that every one in the room was regarding you with wonder." Lady Glencora twisted herself about in her chair, but she said nothing. "She saw that you were not only dancing with Mr. Fitzgerald, but that you were dancing with him,--what shall I say?"
"Upon my word I can't tell you."
"Recklessly."
"Oh! recklessly, was I? What was I reckless of?"
"Reckless of what people might say; reckless of what I might feel about it; reckless of your own position."
"Am I to speak now?"

"Mrs. Marsham came here because she saw that everyone in the room was regarding you with wonder." Lady Glencora twisted herself in her chair, but she said nothing. "She saw that you were not only dancing with Mr. Fitzgerald, but that you were dancing with him - what shall I say?"
"Upon my word I can't tell you."
"Recklessly."
"Oh! recklessly, was I? What was I reckless of?"
"Reckless of what people might say; reckless of what I might feel about it; reckless of your own position.


"Perhaps you had better let me go on. I think she was right to come to me."
"That's of course. What's the good of having spies, if they don't run and tell as soon as they see anything, especially anything--reckless."
"Glencora, you are determined to make me angry. I am angry now,--very angry. I have employed no spies. When rumours have reached me, not from spies, as you choose to call them, but through your dearest friends and mine--"
"What do you mean by rumours from my dearest friends?"

I think she was right to come to me."
"Of course. What's the good of having spies, if they don't run and tell as soon as they see anything, especially anything reckless."
"Glencora, you are determined to make me angry. I am angry now, very angry. I have employed no spies. When rumours have reached me, not from spies, as you choose to call them, but through your dearest friends and mine-"
"What do you mean by rumours from my dearest friends?"


"Never mind. Let me go on."
"No; not when you say my dear friends have spread rumours about me. Tell me who they are. I have no dear friends. Do you mean Alice Vavasor?"

"Never mind. Let me go on."
"No; not when you say my dear friends have spread rumours about me. Tell me who they are. Do you mean Alice Vavasor?"


"It does not signify. But when I was warned that you had better not go to any house in which you could meet that man, I would not listen to it. I said that you were my wife, and that as such I could trust you anywhere, everywhere, with any person. Others might distrust you, but I would not do so. When I wished you to go to Monkshade, were there to be any spies there? When I left you last night at Lady Monk's, do you believe in your heart that I trusted to Mrs. Marsham's eyes rather than to your own truth? Do you think that I have lived in fear of Mr. Fitzgerald?"
"No, Plantagenet; I do not think so."
"Do you believe that I have commissioned Mr. Bott to watch your conduct? Answer me, Glencora."

"It does not matter. But when I was warned that you had better not go to any house in which you could meet that man, I would not listen to it. I said that you were my wife, and that as such I could trust you anywhere, everywhere, with any person. Others might distrust you, but I would not do so. When I wished you to go to Monkshade, were there to be any spies there? When I left you last night at Lady Monk's, do you believe in your heart that I trusted to Mrs. Marsham's eyes rather than to your own truth? Do you think that I have lived in fear of Mr. Fitzgerald?"
"No, Plantagenet; I do not think so."
"Do you believe that I have commissioned Mr. Bott to watch your conduct? Answer me, Glencora."


She paused a moment, thinking what actually was her true belief on that subject. "He does watch me, certainly," she said.
"That does not answer my question. Do you believe that I have commissioned him to do so?"
"No; I do not."
"Then it is ignoble in you to talk to me of spies. I have employed no spies. If it were ever to come to that, that I thought spies necessary, it would be all over with me."

She paused a moment, thinking what actually was her true belief on that subject. "He does watch me, certainly," she said.
"That does not answer my question. Do you believe that I have commissioned him to do so?"
"No; I do not."
"Then it is ignoble in you to talk to me of spies. I have employed no spies. If it were ever to come to that, it would be all over with me."


There was something of feeling in his voice as he said this,--something that almost approached to passion which touched his wife's heart. Whether or not spies would be of any avail, she knew that she had in truth done that of which he had declared that he had never suspected her. She had listened to words of love from her former lover. She had received, and now carried about with her a letter from this man, in which he asked her to elope with him. She had by no means resolved that she would not do this thing. She had been false to her husband; and as her husband spoke of his confidence in her, her own spirit rebelled against the deceit which she herself was practising.
"I know that I have never made you happy," she said. "I know that I never can make you happy."

There was something of feeling in his voice as he said this, which touched his wife's heart. She knew that she had in truth listened to words of love from her former lover. She had received a letter from this man, in which he asked her to elope with him. She had by no means resolved that she would not do it. She had been false to her husband; and as her husband spoke of his confidence in her, her own spirit rebelled against her own deceit.
"I know that I have never made you happy," she said. "I know that I never can make you happy."


He looked at her, struck by her altered tone, and saw that her whole manner and demeanour were changed. "I do not understand what you mean," he said. "I have never complained. You have not made me unhappy." He was one of those men to whom this was enough. If his wife caused him no uneasiness, what more was he to expect from her? No doubt she might have done much more for him. She might have given him an heir. But he was a just man, and knew that the blank he had drawn was his misfortune, and not her fault.

He looked at her, struck by her altered tone, and saw that her whole manner was changed. "I do not understand what you mean," he said. "I have never complained. You have not made me unhappy."
He was one of those men to whom this was enough. If his wife caused him no uneasiness, what more was he to expect from her? No doubt she might have given him an heir. But he was a just man, and knew that was his misfortune, and not her fault.


But now her heart was loosed and she spoke out, at first slowly, but after a while with all the quietness of strong passion. "No, Plantagenet; I shall never make you happy. You have never loved me, nor I you. We have never loved each other for a single moment. I have been wrong to talk to you about spies; I was wrong to go to Lady Monk's; I have been wrong in everything that I have done; but never so wrong as when I let them persuade me to be your wife!"
"Glencora!"

But now her heart was loosed. She spoke out, at first slowly, but with all the quietness of strong passion. "No, Plantagenet; I shall never make you happy. You have never loved me, nor I you. We have never loved each other for a single moment. I have been wrong to talk to you about spies; I was wrong to go to Lady Monk's; I have been wrong in everything that I have done; but never so wrong as when I let them persuade me to be your wife!"
"Glencora!"


"Let me speak now, Plantagenet, It is better that I should tell you everything; and I will. I will tell you everything;--everything! I do love Burgo Fitzgerald. I do! I do! I do! How can I help loving him? Have I not loved him from the first,--before I had seen you? Did you not know that it was so? I do love Burgo Fitzgerald, and when I went to Lady Monk's last night, I had almost made up my mind that I must tell him so, and that I must go away with him and hide myself.

"Let me speak now, Plantagenet. It is better that I should tell you everything; and I will. I do love Burgo Fitzgerald. I do! I do! How can I help it? Have I not loved him from the first, before I had seen you? Did you not know that it was so? I do love Burgo Fitzgerald, and when I went to Lady Monk's last night, I had almost made up my mind that I must tell him so, and that I must go away with him and hide myself.


But when he came to speak to me--"
"He has asked you to go with him, then?" said the husband, in whose bosom the poison was beginning to take effect, thereby showing that he was neither above nor below humanity.
Glencora was immediately reminded that though she might, if she pleased, tell her own secrets, she ought not, in accordance with her ideas of honour, tell those of her lover. "What need is there of asking, do you think, when people have loved each other as we have done?"
"You wanted to go with him, then?"

But when he came to speak to me-"
"He has asked you to go with him, then?" said the husband.
Glencora was immediately reminded that though she might tell her own secrets, she ought not to tell those of her lover. "What need is there of asking, do you think, when people have loved each other as we have done?"
"You wanted to go with him, then?"


"Would it not have been the best for you? Plantagenet, I do not love you;--not as women love their husbands when they do love them. But, before God, my first wish is to free you from the misfortune that I have brought on you." As she made this attestation she started up from her chair, and coming close to him, took him by the coat. He was startled, and stepped back a pace, but did not speak; and then stood looking at her as she went on.
[Illustration: "Before God, my first wish is to free you from the misfortune that I have brought on you."]
"What matters it whether I drown myself, or throw myself away by going with such a one as him, so that you might marry again, and have a child? I'd die;--I'd die willingly. How I wish I could die! Plantagenet, I would kill myself if I dared."

"Would it not have been the best for you? Plantagenet, I do not love you as women love their husbands. But, before God, my first wish is to free you from the misfortune that I have brought on you." As she said this she started up from her chair, and coming close to him, took him by the coat. He was startled, but did not speak; and he stood looking at her as she went on.
"What matters it whether I drown myself, or throw myself away by going with such a one as him, so that you might marry again, and have a child? I'd die willingly. How I wish I could die! Plantagenet, I would kill myself if I dared."


He was a tall man and she was short of stature, so that he stood over her and looked upon her, and now she was looking up into his face with all her eyes. "I would," she said. "I would--I would! What is there left for me that I should wish to live?"
Softly, slowly, very gradually, as though he were afraid of what he was doing, he put his arm round her waist. "You are wrong in one thing," he said. "I do love you."
She shook her head, touching his breast with her hair as she did so.

He was a tall man and she was short, so that he stood over her, and now she was looking up into his face with all her eyes. "I would," she said. "I would! What is there left for me that I should wish to live?"
Softly, slowly, very gradually, as though he were afraid of what he was doing, he put his arm round her waist. "You are wrong in one thing," he said. "I do love you."
She shook her head, touching his breast with her hair as she did so.


"I do love you," he repeated. "If you mean that I am not apt at telling you so, it is true, I know. My mind is running on other things."
"Yes," she said; "your mind is running on other things."
"But I do love you. If you cannot love me, it is a great misfortune to us both. But we need not therefore be disgraced. As for that other thing of which you spoke,--of our having, as yet, no child"--and in saying this he pressed her somewhat closer with his arm--"you allow yourself to think too much of it;--much more of it than I do. I have made no complaints on that head, even within my own breast."
"I know what your thoughts are, Plantagenet."

"I do love you," he repeated. "If you mean that I am not apt at telling you so, it is true, I know. My mind is running on other things."
"Yes," she said; "your mind is running on other things."
"But I do love you. If you cannot love me, it is a great misfortune to us both. But we need not therefore be disgraced. As for that other thing - our having, as yet, no child" - and in saying this he pressed her somewhat closer with his arm - "you allow yourself to think too much of it; much more of it than I do. I have made no complaints on that head, even to myself."
"I know what your thoughts are, Plantagenet."


"Believe me that you wrong my thoughts. Of course I have been anxious, and have, perhaps, shown my anxiety by the struggle I have made to hide it. I have never told you what is false, Glencora."
"No; you are not false!"
"I would rather have you for my wife, childless,--if you will try to love me,--than any other woman, though another might give me an heir. Will you try to love me?"
She was silent. At this moment, after the confession that she had made, she could not bring herself to say that she would even try. Had she said so, she would have seemed to have accepted his forgiveness too easily.

"Believe me. Of course I have been anxious, and have, perhaps, shown my anxiety by the struggle I have made to hide it. I have never told you what is false, Glencora."
"No; you are not false!"
"I would rather have you for my wife, childless - if you will try to love me - than any other woman, though another might give me an heir. Will you try to love me?"
She was silent. At this moment, after her confession, she could not bring herself to say that she would even try. Had she said so, she would have seemed to have accepted his forgiveness too easily.


"I think, dear," he said, still holding her by her waist, "that we had better leave England for a while. I will give up politics for this season. Should you like to go to Switzerland for the summer, or perhaps to some of the German baths, and then on to Italy when the weather is cold enough?" Still she was silent. "Perhaps your friend, Miss Vavasor, would go with us?"
He was killing her by his goodness. She could not speak to him yet; but now, as he mentioned Alice's name, she gently put up her hand and rested it on the back of his.
At that moment there came a knock at the door;--a sharp knock, which was quickly repeated.
"Come in," said Mr. Palliser, dropping his arm from his wife's waist, and standing away from her a few yards.

"I think, dear," he said, still holding her by her waist, "that we had better leave England for a while. I will give up politics for this season. Should you like to go to Switzerland for the summer, or perhaps to the German spas, and then to Italy when the weather is cold enough?" Still she was silent. "Perhaps your friend, Miss Vavasor, would go with us?"
He was killing her by his goodness. She could not speak to him yet; but now, as he mentioned Alice's name, she gently put up her hand and rested it on the back of his.
At that moment there came a knock at the door - a sharp knock, which was repeated.
"Come in," said Mr. Palliser, dropping his arm from his wife's waist, and standing away from her.


The handmaiden at George Vavasor's lodgings announced "another gent," and then Mr. Scruby entered the room in which were seated George, and Mr. Grimes the publican from the "Handsome Man" on the Brompton Road. Mr. Scruby was an attorney from Great Marlborough Street, supposed to be very knowing in the ways of metropolitan elections; and he had now stepped round, as he called it, with the object of saying a few words to Mr. Grimes, partly on the subject of the forthcoming contest at Chelsea, and partly on that of the contest last past. These words were to be said in the presence of Mr. Vavasor, the person interested. That some other words had been spoken between Mr. Scruby and Mr. Grimes on the same subjects behind Mr. Vavasor's back I think very probable. But even though this might have been so I am not prepared to say that Mr. Vavasor had been deceived by their combinations.
The two men were very civil to each other in their salutations, the attorney assuming an air of patronizing condescension, always calling the other Grimes; whereas Mr. Scruby was treated with considerable deference by the publican, and was always called Mr. Scruby. "Business is business," said the publican as soon as these salutations were over; "isn't it now, Mr. Scruby?"
"And I suppose Grimes thinks Sunday morning a particularly good time for business," said the attorney, laughing.

The handmaiden announced "another gent," and Mr. Scruby entered the room. He was an attorney, supposed to be very knowing in the ways of elections; and he had now come to say a few words to Mr. Grimes. I think it very likely that some other words had been spoken between the two men behind Mr. Vavasor's back. But Vavasor probably knew this.
The two men saluted each other very


"It's quiet, you know," said Grimes. "But it warn't me as named Sunday morning. It was Mr. Vavasor here. But it is quiet; ain't it, Mr. Scruby?"
Mr. Scruby acknowledged that it was quiet, especially looking out over the river, and then they proceeded to business. "We must pull the governor through better next time than we did last," said the attorney.
"Of course we must, Mr. Scruby; but, Lord love you, Mr. Vavasor, whose fault was it? What notice did I get,--just tell me that? Why, Travers's name was up on the liberal interest ever so long before the governor had ever thought about it."
"Nobody is blaming you, Mr. Grimes," said George.

 civilly, and then got proceeded to business.
"We must pull the governor through better next time than we did last," said the attorney.
"Of course we must, Mr. Scruby; but, Lord love you, Mr. Vavasor, whose fault was it? What notice did I get?"
"Nobody is blaming you, Mr. Grimes," said George.


"And nobody can't, Mr. Vavasor. I done my work true as steel, and there ain't another man about the place as could have done half as much. You ask Mr. Scruby else. Mr. Scruby knows, if ere a man in London does. I tell you what it is, Mr. Vavasor, them Chelsea fellows, who lives mostly down by the river, ain't like your Maryboners or Finsburyites. It wants something of a man to manage them. Don't it Mr. Scruby?"
"It wants something of a man to manage any of them as far as my experience goes," said Mr. Scruby.

"And nobody can't, Mr. Vavasor. I done my work true as steel, and there ain't another man as could have done half as much. You ask Mr. Scruby. I tell you what it is, Mr. Vavasor, them Chelsea fellows down by the river ain't like your Maryboners or Finsburyites. It wants a man to manage them. Don't it, Mr. Scruby?"
"It wants a man to manage any of them," said Mr. Scruby.


"Of course it do; and there ain't one in London knows so much about it as you do, Mr. Scruby. I will say that for you. But the long and the short of it is this;--business is business, and money is money."
"Money is money, certainly," said Mr. Scruby. "There's no doubt in the world about that, Grimes;--and a deal of it you had out of the last election."
"No, I hadn't; begging your pardon, Mr. Scruby, for making so free. What I had to my own cheek wasn't nothing to speak of. I wasn't paid for my time; that's what I wasn't. You look how a publican's business gets cut up at them elections;--and then the state of the house afterwards! What would the governor say to me if I was to put down painting inside and out in my little bill?"

"Of course it do; and there ain't one in London knows so much about it as you do, Mr. Scruby. But the long and the short of it is - business is business, and money is money."
"Money is money, certainly," said Mr. Scruby. "and you had a deal of it for the last election, Grimes."
"No, I hadn't, begging your pardon, Mr. Scruby. What I had for myself wasn't nothing to speak of. I wasn't paid for my time. And then the state of my tavern afterwards! What would the governor say if I was to put down painting in my little bill?


"It doesn't seem to make much difference how you put it down," said Vavasor. "The total is what I look at."
"Just so, Mr. Vavasor; just so. The total is what I looks at too. And I has to look at it a deuced long time before I gets it. I ain't a got it yet; have I, Mr. Vavasor?"
"Well; if you ask me I should say you had," said George. "I know I paid Mr. Scruby three hundred pounds on your account."

But I ain't been paid yet; have I, Mr. Vavasor?"
"Well, I should say you had," said George. "I know I paid Mr. Scruby three hundred pounds on your account."


"And I got every shilling of it, Mr. Vavasor. I'm not a going to deny the money, Mr. Vavasor. You'll never find me doing that. I'm as round as your hat, and as square as your elbow,--I am. Mr. Scruby knows me; don't you, Mr. Scruby?"
"Perhaps I know you too well, Grimes."
"No you don't, Mr. Scruby; not a bit too well. Nor I don't know you too well, either. I respect you, Mr. Scruby, because you're a man as understands your business. But as I was saying, what's three hundred pounds when a man's bill is three hundred and ninety-two thirteen and fourpence?"

"And I got every shilling of it, Mr. Vavasor. I'm not going to deny that. But what's three hundred pounds when a man's bill is three hundred and ninety-two thirteen and fourpence?"


"I thought that was all settled, Mr. Scruby," said Vavasor.
"Why you see, Mr. Vavasor, it's very hard to settle these things. If you ask me whether Mr. Grimes here can sue you for the balance, I tell you very plainly that he can't. We were a little short of money when we came to a settlement, as is generally the case at such times, and so we took Mr. Grimes' receipt for three hundred pounds."
"Of course you did, Mr. Scruby."
"Not on account, but in full of all demands."

"I thought that was all settled, Mr. Scruby," said Vavasor.
"Why, Mr. Vavasor, it's very hard to settle these things," said the attorney. "We were a little short of money when we came to a settlement, as is generally the case at such times, and so we took Mr. Grimes' receipt for three hundred pounds - in full payment of all demands.


"Now Mr. Scruby!" and the publican as he made this appeal looked at the attorney with an expression of countenance which was absolutely eloquent. "Are you going to put me off with such an excuse as that?" so the look spoke plainly enough. "Are you going to bring up my own signature against me, when you know very well that I shouldn't have got a shilling at all for the next twelve months if I hadn't given it? Oh Mr. Scruby!" That's what Mr. Grimes' look said, and both Mr. Scruby and Mr. Vavasor understood it perfectly.
"In full of all demands," said Mr. Scruby, with a slight tone of triumph in his voice, as though to show that Grimes' appeal had no effect at all upon his conscience. "If you were to go into a court of law, Grimes, you wouldn't have a leg to stand upon."

If you were to go to a court of law, Grimes, you wouldn't have a leg to stand upon."


"A court of law? Who's a going to law with the governor, I should like to know? not I; not if he didn't pay me them ninety-two pounds thirteen and fourpence for the next five years."
"Five years or fifteen would make no difference," said Scruby. "You couldn't do it."
"And I ain't a going to try. That's not the ticket I've come here about, Mr. Vavasor, this blessed Sunday morning. Going to law, indeed! But Mr. Scruby, I've got a family."
"Not in the vale of Taunton, I hope," said George.

"A court of law? That's not what I've come here about, Mr. Vavasor. Going to law, indeed!


"They is at the 'Handsome Man' in the Brompton Road, Mr. Vavasor; and I always feels that I owes my first duty to them. If a man don't work for his family, what do he work for?"
"Come, come, Grimes," said Mr. Scruby. "What is it you're at? Out with it, and don't keep us here all day."
"What is it I'm at, Mr. Scruby? As if you didn't know very well what I'm at. There's my house;--in all them Chelsea districts it's the most convenientest of any public as is open for all manner of election purposes. That's given up to it."

There's my public-house; in all them Chelsea districts it's the most convenientest for all manner of election purposes.


"And what next?" said Scruby.
"The next is, I myself. There isn't one of the lot of 'em can work them Chelsea fellows down along the river unless it is me. Mr. Scruby knows that. Why I've been a getting of them up with a view to this very job ever since;--why ever since they was a talking of the Chelsea districts. When Lord Robert was a coming in for the county on the religious dodge, he couldn't have worked them fellows anyhow, only for me. Mr. Scruby knows that."
"Let's take it all for granted, Mr. Grimes," said Vavasor. "What comes next?"

And I can work them Chelsea fellows along the river - Mr. Scruby knows that.


"Well;--them Bunratty people; it is they as has come next. They know which side their bread is likely to be buttered; they do. They're a bidding for the 'Handsome Man' already; they are."
"And you'd let your house to the Tory party, Grimes!" said Mr. Scruby, in a tone in which disgust and anger were blended.
"Who said anything of my letting my house to the Tory party, Mr. Scruby? I'm as round as your hat, Mr. Scruby, and as square as your elbow; I am. But suppose as all the liberal gents as employs you, Mr. Scruby, was to turn again you and not pay you your little bills, wouldn't you have your eyes open for customers of another kind? Come now, Mr. Scruby?"
[Illustration: "I'm as round as your hat, and as square as your elbow; I am."]

But them Bunratty people are a-bidding for the 'Handsome Man' already."
"And you'd let your house to the Tory party, Grimes!" said Mr. Scruby, in tones of disgust.
"Who said anything about that? But suppose as all the liberal gents as employs you, Mr. Scruby, was to not pay your little bills, wouldn't you look for customers of another kind?"


"You won't make much of that game, Grimes."
"Perhaps not; perhaps not. There's a risk in all these things; isn't there, Mr. Vavasor? I should like to see you a Parliament gent; I should indeed. You'd be a credit to the districts; I really think you would."
"I'm much obliged by your good opinion, Mr. Grimes," said George.
"When I sees a gent coming forward I knows whether he's fit for Parliament, or whether he ain't. I says you are fit. But Lord love you, Mr. Vavasor; it's a thing a gentleman always has to pay for."
"That's true enough; a deal more than it's worth, generally."

"You won't make much of that game, Grimes."
"Perhaps not. But Mr. Vavasor, I should like to see you a Parliament gent; I should indeed. You'd be a credit to the districts."
"I'm much obliged," said George.
"But Lord love you, Mr. Vavasor, it's a thing a gentleman has to pay for."
"A good deal more than it's worth, generally."


"A thing's worth what it fetches. I'm worth what I'll fetch; that's the long and the short of it. I want to have my balance, that's the truth. It's the odd money in a man's bill as always carries the profit. You ask Mr. Scruby else;--only with a lawyer it's all profit I believe."
"That's what you know about it," said Scruby.


"If you cut off a man's odd money," continued the publican, "you break his heart. He'd almost sooner have that and leave the other standing. He'd call the hundreds capital, and if he lost them at last, why he'd put it down as being in the way of trade. But the odd money;--he looks at that, Mr. Vavasor, as in a manner the very sweat of his brow, the work of his own hand; that's what goes to his family, and keeps the pot a boiling down-stairs. Never stop a man's odd money, Mr. Vavasor; that is, unless he comes it very strong indeed."
"And what is it you want now?" said Scruby.
"I wants ninety-two pounds thirteen and fourpence, Mr. Scruby, and then we'll go to work for the new fight with contented hearts. If we're to begin at all, it's quite time; it is indeed, Mr. Vavasor."
"And what you mean us to understand is, that you won't begin at all without your money," said the lawyer.

I just wants my ninety-two pounds thirteen and fourpence, and then we'll go to work for the new fight with contented hearts. If we're to begin at all, it's time."
"You mean that you won't begin at all without your money," said the lawyer.


"That's about it, Mr. Scruby."
"Take a fifty-pound note, Grimes," said the lawyer.
"Fifty-pound notes are not so ready," said George.
"Oh, he'll be only too happy to have your acceptance; won't you, Grimes."
"Not for fifty pounds, Mr. Scruby. It's the odd money that I wants. I don't mind the thirteen and four, because that's neither here nor there among friends, but if I didn't get all them ninety-two pounds I should be a broken-hearted man; I should indeed, Mr. Vavasor. I couldn't go about your work for next year so as to do you justice among the electors. I couldn't indeed."

"That's about it, Mr. Scruby."
"Take a fifty-pound note, Grimes," said the lawyer.
"Fifty-pound notes are not so ready," said George.
"I don't mind the thirteen and four, but if I didn't get all them ninety-two pounds I should be a broken-hearted man; I should indeed, Mr. Vavasor. I couldn't go about your work so as to do you justice among the electors."


"You'd better give him a bill for ninety pounds at three months, Mr. Vavasor. I have no doubt he has got a stamp in his pocket."
"That I have, Mr. Scruby; there ain't no mistake about that. A bill stamp is a thing that often turns up convenient with gents as mean business like Mr. Vavasor and you. But you must make it ninety-two; you must indeed, Mr. Vavasor. And do make it two months if you can, Mr. Vavasor; they do charge so unconscionable on ninety days at them branch banks; they do indeed."

"You'd better give him a bill for ninety pounds at three months, Mr. Vavasor," said the attorney.
"You must make it ninety-two; you must indeed, Mr. Vavasor. And do make it two months if you can."


George Vavasor and Mr. Scruby, between them, yielded at last, so far as to allow the bill to be drawn for ninety-two pounds, but they were stanch as to the time. "If it must be, it must," said the publican, with a deep sigh, as he folded up the paper and put it into the pocket of a huge case which he carried. "And now, gents, I'll tell you what it is. We'll make safe work of this here next election. We know what's to be our little game in time, and if we don't go in and win, my name ain't Jacob Grimes, and I ain't the landlord of the 'Handsome Man.' As you gents has perhaps got something to say among yourselves, I'll make so bold as to wish you good morning." So, with that, Mr. Grimes lifted his hat from the floor, and bowed himself out of the room.
"You couldn't have done it cheaper; you couldn't, indeed," said the lawyer, as soon as the sound of the closing front door had been heard.
"Perhaps not; but what a thief the man is! I remember your telling me that the bill was about the most preposterous you had ever seen."

George Vavasor and Mr. Scruby yielded at last, so far as to allow the bill to be drawn for ninety-two pounds, but at three months distant.
"If it must be, it must," said the publican, with a deep sigh, as he folded up the paper and put it away. "And now, gents, we'll make safe work of this here next election. If we don't win, my name ain't Jacob Grimes. I'll wish you good morning." Mr. Grimes bowed himself out of the room.
"You couldn't have done it cheaper," said the lawyer, once he had gone.
"Perhaps not; but what a thief the man is! You told me the bill was preposterous."


"So it was, and if we hadn't wanted him again of course we shouldn't have paid him. But we'll have it all off his next account, Mr. Vavasor,--every shilling of it, It's only lent; that's all;--it's only lent."
"But one doesn't want to lend such a man money, if one could help it."
"That's true. If you look at it in that light, it's quite true. But you see we cannot do without him. If he hadn't got your bill, he'd have gone over to the other fellows before the week was over; and the worst of it would have been that he knows our hand. Looking at it all round you've got him cheap, Mr. Vavasor;--you have, indeed."
"Looking at it all round is just what I don't like, Mr. Scruby, But if a man will have a whistle, he must pay for it."

"So it was, and if we hadn't wanted him again of course we shouldn't have paid him. But we'll have it all off his next account, Mr. Vavasor. You see, if he hadn't got your bill, he'd have gone over to the other fellows before the week was over. You've got him cheap.


"You can't do it cheap for any of these metropolitan seats; you can't, indeed, Mr. Vavasor. That is, a new man can't. When you've been in four or five times, like old Duncombe, why then, of course, you may snap your fingers at such men as Grimes. But the Chelsea districts ain't dear. I don't call them by any means dear. Now Marylebone is dear,--and so is Southwark. It's dear, and nasty; that's what the borough is. Only that I never tell tales, I could tell you a tale, Mr. Vavasor, that'd make your hair stand on end; I could indeed."
"Ah! the game is hardly worth the candle, I believe."


"That depends on what way you choose to look at it. A seat in Parliament is a great thing to a man who wants to make his way;--a very great thing;--specially when a man's young, like you, Mr. Vavasor."
"Young!" said George. "Sometimes it seems to me as though I've been living for a hundred years. But I won't trouble you with that, Mr. Scruby, and I believe I needn't keep you any longer." With that, he got up and bowed the attorney out of the room, with just a little more ceremony than he had shown to the publican.

A seat in Parliament is a great thing to a man who wants to make his way; specially a young man like you."
"Young!" said George. "Sometimes it seems as though I've been living for a hundred years. I believe I needn't keep you any longer, Mr. Scruby." He saw the attorney out.


"Young!" said Vavasor to himself, when he was left alone. "There's my uncle, or the old squire,--they're both younger men than I am. One cares for his dinner, and the other for his bullocks and his trees. But what is there that I care for, unless it is not getting among the sheriff's officers for debt?" Then he took out a little memorandum-book from his breast-pocket, and having made in it an entry as to the amount and date of that bill which he had just accepted on the publican's behalf, he conned over the particulars of its pages. "Very blue; very blue, indeed," he said to himself when he had completed the study. "But nobody shall say I hadn't the courage to play the game out, and that old fellow must die some day, one supposes. If I were not a fool, I should make it up with him before he went; but I am a fool, and shall remain so to the last." Soon after that he dressed himself slowly, reading a little every now and then as he did so.

"Young!" he said to himself, when he was alone. "My uncle and the old squire are both younger men than I am. One cares for his dinner, and the other for his bullocks and his trees. But what do I care for, except not getting arrested for debt?"
Then he took out a little notebook from his pocket, and having made an entry about the publican's bill, he looked through its pages.
"Very blue, indeed," he said to himself. "But nobody shall say I hadn't the courage to play the game out; and that old fellow in Westmorland must die some day. If I were not a fool, I should make it up with him before he went; but I am a fool."


When his toilet was completed, and his Sunday newspapers sufficiently perused, he took up his hat and umbrella and sauntered out.

Then he dressed himself, took up his hat and umbrella and sauntered out.


George Vavasor was not in a very happy mood when he left Queen Anne Street, after having flung his gift ring under the grate. Indeed there was much in his condition, as connected with the house which he was leaving, which could not but make him unhappy. Alice was engaged to be his wife, and had as yet said nothing to show that she meditated any breach of that engagement, but she had treated him in a way which made him long to throw her promise in her teeth. He was a man to whom any personal slight from a woman was unendurable. To slights from men, unless they were of a nature to provoke offence, he was indifferent. There was no man living for whose liking or disliking George Vavasor cared anything. But he did care much for the good opinion, or rather for the personal favour, of any woman to whom he had endeavoured to make himself agreeable. "I will marry you," Alice had said to him,--not in words, but in acts and looks, which were plainer than words,--"I will marry you for certain reasons of my own, which in my present condition make it seem that that arrangement will be more convenient to me than any other that I can make; but pray understand that there is no love mixed up with this. There is another man whom I love;--only, for those reasons above hinted, I do not care to marry him." It was thus that he read Alice's present treatment of him, and he was a man who could not endure this treatment with ease.

George Vavasor was not in a very happy mood when he left Queen Anne Street after flinging his ring in the fireplace. Indeed there was much to make him unhappy. Alice was engaged to be his wife, but she had treated him in a way which made him long to throw her promise in her teeth. He was a man to whom any personal slight from a woman was unendurable.
"I will marry you," Alice's behaviour had said to him, "for certain reasons of my own, which make that arrangement convenient; but pray understand that there is no love mixed up with this. There is another man whom I love; only I do not care to marry him." It was thus that he read Alice's treatment of him, and he could not endure it.


But though he could throw his ring under the grate in his passion, he could not so dispose of her. That he would have done so had his hands been free, we need not doubt. And he would have been clever enough to do so in some manner that would have been exquisitely painful to Alice, willing as she might be to be released from her engagement. But he could not do this to a woman whose money he had borrowed, and whose money he could not repay;--to a woman, more of whose money he intended to borrow immediately. As to that latter part of it, he did say to himself over and over again, that he would have no more of it. As he left the house in Queen Anne Street, on that occasion, he swore, that under no circumstances would he be indebted to her for another shilling. But before he had reached Great Marlborough Street, to which his steps took him, he had reminded himself that everything depended on a further advance. He was in Parliament, but Parliament would be dissolved within three months. Having sacrificed so much for his position, should he let it all fall from him now,--now, when success seemed to be within his reach? That wretched old man in Westmoreland, who seemed gifted almost with immortality,--why could he not die and surrender his paltry acres to one who could use them?

But though he could throw his ring under the fire-grate in his passion, he could not so dispose of her. He would have done so had his hands been free. And he would have been clever enough to do so in a way that would have been exquisitely painful to Alice, willing as she might be to be released from her engagement.
But he had borrowed money from her, money which he could not repay - and he intended to borrow more immediately. As he walked away, he did say to himself that he would have no more of it. He would not be indebted to her for another shilling. But before long he had reminded himself that everything depended on a further advance. He was in Parliament: having sacrificed so much for his position, should he let it all fall from him now? That wretched old man in Westmorland - why could he not die and surrender his paltry acres to one who could use them?


He turned away from Regent Street into Hanover Square before he crossed to Great Marlborough Street, giving vent to his passion rather than arranging his thoughts. As he walked the four sides of the square he considered how good it would be if some accident should befall the old man. How he would rejoice were he to hear to-morrow that one of the trees of the "accursed place," had fallen on the "obstinate old idiot," and put an end to him! I will not say that he meditated the murder of his grandfather. There was a firm conviction on his mind, as he thought of all this, that such a deed as that would never come in his way. But he told himself, that if he chose to make the attempt, he would certainly be able to carry it through without detection. Then he remembered Rush and Palmer--the openly bold murderer and the secret poisoner. Both of them, in Vavasor's estimation, were great men. He had often said so in company. He had declared that the courage of Rush had never been surpassed.

He turned into Hanover Square, considering how good it would be if some accident should befall the old man. How he would rejoice if he were to hear that a tree had fallen on the "obstinate old idiot!" I will not say that he meditated the murder of his grandfather. But he told himself that if he chose to, he would certainly be able to do it without detection.


"Think of him," he would say with admiration, "walking into a man's house, with pistols sufficient to shoot every one there, and doing it as though he were killing rats! What was Nelson at Trafalgar to that? Nelson had nothing to fear!" And of Palmer he declared that he was a man of genius as well as courage. He had "looked the whole thing in the face," Vavasor would say, "and told himself that all scruples and squeamishness are bosh,--child's tales. And so they are. Who lives as though they fear either heaven or hell? And if we do live without such fear or respect, what is the use of telling lies to ourselves? To throw it all to the dogs, as Palmer did, is more manly." "And be hanged," some hearer of George's doctrine replied.


"Yes, and be hanged,--if such is your destiny. But you hear of the one who is hanged, but hear nothing of the twenty who are not."


Vavasor walked round Hanover Square, nursing his hatred against the old Squire. He did not tell himself that he would like to murder his grandfather. But he suggested to himself, that if he desired to do so, he would have courage enough to make his way into the old man's room, and strangle him; and he explained to himself how he would be able to get down into Westmoreland without the world knowing that he had been there,--how he would find an entrance into the house by a window with which he was acquainted,--how he could cause the man to die as though, those around him should think, it was apoplexy,--he, George Vavasor, having read something on that subject lately. All this he considered very fully, walking rapidly round Hanover Square more than once or twice. If he were to become an active student in the Rush or Palmer school, he would so study the matter that he would not be the one that should be hung. He thought that he could, so far, trust his own ingenuity. But yet he did not meditate murder. "Beastly old idiot!" he said to himself, "he must have his chance as other men have, I suppose," And then he went across Regent Street to Mr. Scruby's office in Great Marlborough Street, not having, as yet, come to any positive conclusion as to what he would do in reference to Alice's money.

He would have courage enough to make his way into the old man's room and strangle him; and he worked out how he would find an entrance into the house by a window, and how he could cause the old man to die as though from apoplexy.
All this he considered very fully, walking rapidly round Hanover Square. And then he went to Mr. Scruby's office in Great Marlborough Street, not having yet decided what he would do about Alice's money.


But he soon found himself talking to Mr. Scruby as though there were no doubts as to the forthcoming funds for the next elections. And Mr. Scruby talked to him very plainly, as though those funds must be forthcoming before long. "A stitch in time saves nine," said Mr. Scruby, meaning to insinuate that a pound in time might have the same effect. "And I'll tell you what, Mr. Vavasor,--of course I've my outstanding bills for the last affair. That's no fault of yours, for the things came so sharp one on another that my fellows haven't had time to make it out. But if you'll put me in funds for what I must be out of pocket in June--"
"Will it be so soon as June?"
"They are talking of June. Why, then, I'll lump the two bills together when it's all over."

But he soon found himself talking to Mr. Scruby as though there were no doubts about the forthcoming funds for the next election. And Mr. Scruby said plainly that those funds must be forthcoming soon.
"Of course I've my outstanding bills for the last affair." said Mr. Scruby. "That's no fault of yours. But if you'll put me in funds for what I'll need to pay in June, I'll lump the two bills together when it's all over."


In their discussion respecting money Mr. Scruby injudiciously mentioned the name of Mr. Tombe. No precise caution had been given to him, but he had become aware that the matter was being managed through an agency that was not recognized by his client; and as that agency was simply a vehicle of money which found its way into Mr. Scruby's pocket, he should have held his tongue. But Mr. Tombe's name escaped from him, and Vavasor immediately questioned him. Scruby, who did not often make such blunders, readily excused himself, shaking his head, and declaring that the name had fallen from his lips instead of that of another man. Vavasor accepted the excuse without further notice, and nothing more was said about Mr. Tombe while he was in Mr. Scruby's office. But he had not heard the name in vain, and had unfortunately heard it before. Mr. Tombe was a remarkable man in his way. He wore powder to his hair,--was very polite in his bearing,--was somewhat asthmatic, and wheezed in his talking,--and was, moreover, the most obedient of men, though it was said of him that he managed the whole income of the Ely Chapter just as he pleased. Being in these ways a man of note, John Grey had spoken of him to Alice, and his name had filtered through Alice and her cousin Kate to George Vavasor. George seldom forgot things or names, and when he heard Mr. Tombe's name mentioned in connection with his own money matters, he remembered that Mr. Tombe was John Grey's lawyer.

In this discussion, Mr. Scruby unwisely mentioned the name of Mr. Tombe. He had become aware that the money was being managed through an agency that was unknown to his client. Mr. Tombe's name escaped from him, and Vavasor immediately questioned him. Scruby, who did not often make such blunders, shook his head, and declared that he had meant a different man.
Vavasor accepted the excuse, and said nothing more about Mr. Tombe. But he had heard the name before. John Grey had spoken of Mr. Tombe to Alice, and his name had filtered through Alice and her cousin Kate to George Vavasor. Now George remembered that Mr. Tombe was John Grey's lawyer.


As soon as he could escape out into the street he endeavoured to put all these things together, and after a while resolved that he would go to Mr. Tombe. What if there should be an understanding between John Grey and Alice, and Mr. Tombe should be arranging his money matters for him! Would not anything be better than this,--even that little tragedy down in Westmoreland, for which his ingenuity and courage would be required? He could endure to borrow money from Alice. He might even endure it still,--though that was very difficult after her treatment of him; but he could not endure to be the recipient of John Grey's money. By heavens, no! And as he got into a cab, and had himself driven off to the neighbourhood of Doctors' Commons, he gave himself credit for much fine manly feeling. Mr. Tombe's chambers were found without difficulty, and, as it happened, Mr. Tombe was there.

Out in the street he tried to put all these things together, and resolved that he would go to Mr. Tombe. What if there should be an understanding between John Grey and Alice, and Mr. Tombe should be arranging his money matters for him! He could endure to borrow money from Alice, though it was difficult after her treatment of him; but he could not endure to be the recipient of John Grey's money. By heavens, no!
As he got into a cab, and was driven off to Doctors' Commons, he gave himself credit for much fine manly feeling. Mr. Tombe's chambers were found without difficulty, and, as it happened, Mr. Tombe was there.


The lawyer rose from his chair as Vavasor entered, and bowed his powdered head very meekly as he asked his visitor to sit down. "Mr. Vavasor;--oh, yes. He had heard the name. Yes; he was in the habit of acting for his very old friend Mr. John Grey. He had acted for Mr. John Grey, and for Mr. John Grey's father,--he or his partner,--he believed he might say, for about half a century. There could not be a nicer gentleman than Mr. John Grey;--and such a pretty child as he used to be!" At every new sentence Mr. Tombe caught his poor asthmatic breath, and bowed his meek old head, and rubbed his hands together as though he hardly dared to keep his seat in Vavasor's presence without the support of some such motion; and wheezed apologetically, and seemed to ask pardon of his visitor for not knowing intuitively what was the nature of that visitor's business. But he was a sly old fox was Mr. Tombe, and was considering all this time how much it would be well that he should tell Mr. Vavasor, and how much it would be well that he should conceal. "The fat had got into the fire," as he told his old wife when he got home that evening. He told his old wife everything, and I don't know that any of his clients were the worse for his doing so.

The lawyer rose from his chair as Vavasor entered, and meekly asked his visitor to sit down.
"Mr. Vavasor; oh, yes. He had heard the name. Yes; he was in the habit of acting for his very old friend Mr. John Grey. He and his partner had acted for Mr. John Grey, and for Mr. John Grey's father, for about half a century." At every new sentence Mr. Tombe bowed his meek old head, and rubbed his hands together, and wheezed apologetically, and seemed to ask pardon of his visitor. But Mr. Tombe was a sly old fox, and was considering all this time how much he should tell Mr. Vavasor, and how much he should conceal.
"The fat had got into the fire," as he told his old wife that evening.


But while he was wheezing, and coughing, and apologizing, he made up his mind that if George Vavasor were to ask him certain questions, it would be best that he should answer them truly. If Vavasor did ask those questions, he would probably do so upon certain knowledge, and if so, why, in that case, lying would be of no use. Lying would not put the fat back into the frying pan. And even though such questions might be asked without any absolute knowledge, they would, at any rate, show that the questioner had the means of ascertaining the truth. He would tell as little as he could; but he decided during his last wheeze, that he could not lie in the matter with any chance of benefiting his client. "The prettiest child I ever saw, Mr. Vavasor!" said Mr. Tombe, and then he coughed violently. Some people who knew Mr. Tombe declared that he nursed his cough.
"I dare say," said George.
"Yes, indeed,--ugh--ugh--ugh."

But while he was wheezing, and coughing, and apologizing, he made up his mind that if George Vavasor were to ask him certain questions, it would be best that he should answer them truly. Lying would not put the fat back into the frying pan. He would tell as little as he could; but he decided he could not lie with any chance of benefiting his client.


"Can you tell me, Mr. Tombe, whether either you or he have anything to do with the payment of certain sums to my credit at Messrs. Hock and Block's?"
"Messrs. Hock and Block's, the bankers,--in Lom--bard Street?" said Mr. Tombe, taking a little more time.
"Yes; I bank there," said Vavasor, sharply.
"A most respectable house."
"Has any money been paid there to my credit, by you, Mr. Tombe?"
"May I ask you why you put the question to me, Mr. Vavasor?"
"Well, I don't think you may. That is to say, my reason for asking it can have nothing to do with yours for replying to it. If you have had no hand in any such payment, there is an end of it, and I need not take up your time by saying anything more on the subject."

"Can you tell me, Mr. Tombe, whether you have anything to do with the payment of certain sums to my credit at Messrs. Hock and Block's?"
"The bankers in Lombard Street?" said Mr. Tombe, taking a little more time. "A most respectable house."
"Has any money been paid there to my credit by you, Mr. Tombe?"
"May I ask you why you put the question to me, Mr. Vavasor?"
"Well, I don't think you may. If you have had no hand in any such payment, there is an end of it, and I need not take up any more of your time."


"I am not prepared to go that length, Mr. Vavasor,--not altogether to go that length,--ugh--ugh--ugh."
"Then, will you tell me what you have done in the matter?"
"Well,--upon my word, you've taken me a little by surprise. Let me see. Pinkle,--Pinkle." Pinkle was a clerk who sat in an inner room, and Mr. Tombe's effort to call him seemed to be most ineffectual. But Pinkle understood the sound, and came. "Pinkle, didn't we pay some money into Hock and Block's a few weeks since, to the credit of Mr. George Vavasor?"
"Did we, sir?" said Pinkle, who probably knew that his employer was an old fox, and who, perhaps, had caught something of the fox nature himself.

"Well - upon my word, you've taken me a little by surprise. Let me see. Pinkle - Pinkle!" Pinkle was a clerk who sat in an inner room, and who now came in. "Pinkle, didn't we pay some money into Hock and Block's a few weeks since, to the credit of Mr. George Vavasor?"
"Did we, sir?" said Pinkle, who knew that his employer was an old fox, and who, perhaps, had caught something of the fox nature himself.


"I think we did. Just look Pinkle;--and, Pinkle,--see the date, and let me know all about it. It's fine bright weather for this time of year, Mr. Vavasor; but these easterly winds!--ugh--ugh--ugh!"
Vavasor found himself sitting for an apparently interminable number of minutes in Mr. Tombe's dingy chamber, and was coughed at, and wheezed at, till he begun to be tired of his position; moreover, when tired, he showed his impatience. "Perhaps you'll let us write you a line when we have looked into the matter?" suggested Mr. Tombe.
"I'd rather know at once," said Vavasor. "I don't suppose it can take you very long to find out whether you have paid money to my account, by order of Mr. Grey. At any rate, I must know before I go away."

"I think we did. Just look, Pinkle, and see the date, and let me know all about it. It's fine bright weather for this time of year, Mr. Vavasor; but these easterly winds!" Mr. Tombe began to cough and wheeze. "Ugh - ugh - ugh!"
Vavasor found himself sitting for interminable minutes in Mr. Tombe's dingy chamber, being coughed and wheezed at, till he begun to be tired of it; and he showed his impatience.
"Perhaps you'll let us write you a line when we have looked into the matter?" suggested Mr. Tombe.
"I'd rather know at once," said Vavasor. "I don't suppose it can take you very long to find out whether you have paid money to my account, by order of Mr. Grey. At any rate, I must know before I go away."


"Pinkle, Pinkle!" screamed the old man through his coughing; and again Pinkle came. "Well, Pinkle, was anything of the kind done, or is my memory deceiving me?" Mr. Tombe was, no doubt, lying shamefully, for, of course, he remembered all about it; and, indeed, George Vavasor had learned already quite enough for his own purposes.
"I was going to look," said Pinkle; and Pinkle again went away.
"I'm sorry to give your clerk so much trouble," said Vavasor, in an angry voice; "and I think it must be unnecessary. Surely you know whether Mr. Grey has commissioned you to pay money for me?"

"Pinkle, Pinkle!" screamed the old man through his coughing; and again Pinkle came in. "Well, Pinkle, was anything of the kind done, or is my memory deceiving me?"
"I was going to look," said Pinkle; and he went away again.
"I'm sorry to give your clerk so much trouble," said Vavasor angrily; "and I think it must be unnecessary. Surely you know whether Mr. Grey has commissioned you to pay money for me?"


"We have so many things to do, Mr. Vavasor; and so many clients. We have, indeed. You see, it isn't only one gentleman's affairs. But I think there was something done. I do, indeed."
"What is Mr. John Grey's address?" asked Vavasor, very sharply.

"We have so many things to do, Mr. Vavasor; and so many clients. We have, indeed. But I think there was something done."
"What is Mr. John Grey's address?" asked Vavasor, very sharply.


"Number 5, Suffolk Street, Pall Mall East," said Mr. Tombe. Herein Mr. Tombe somewhat committed himself. His client, Mr. Grey, was, in fact, in town, but Vavasor had not known or imagined that such was the case. Had Mr. Tombe given the usual address of Nethercoats, nothing further would have been demanded from him on that subject. But he had foolishly presumed that the question had been based on special information as to his client's visit to London, and he had told the plain truth in a very simple way.
"Number 5, Suffolk Street," said Vavasor, writing down the address. "Perhaps it will be better that I should go to him, as you do not seem inclined to give me any information." Then he took up his hat, and hardly bowing to Mr. Tombe, left the chambers. Mr. Tombe, as he did so, rose from his chair, and bent his head meekly down upon the table.

"Number 5, Suffolk Street, Pall Mall East," said Mr. Tombe. Herein he foolishly committed himself. Vavasor had known of Nethercoats, but he had not known John Grey's London address - or that John Grey was in London now.
"Number 5, Suffolk Street," said Vavasor, writing it down. "Perhaps it will be better that I should go to him, as you do not seem inclined to give me any information." Then he took up his hat, and hardly bowing, left the room.


"Pinkle, Pinkle," wheezed Mr. Tombe. "Never mind; never mind." Pinkle didn't mind; and we may say that he had not minded; for up to that moment he had taken no steps towards a performance of the order which had been given him.

"Pinkle, Pinkle," wheezed Mr. Tombe. "Never mind." Pinkle didn't mind; and he had never minded; for up to that moment he had taken no steps towards carrying out the order which had been given him.


Parliament opened that year on the twelfth of February, and Mr. Palliser was one of the first Members of the Lower House to take his seat. It had been generally asserted through the country, during the last week, that the existing Chancellor of the Exchequer had, so to say, ceased to exist as such; that though he still existed to the outer world, drawing his salary, and doing routine work,--if a man so big can have any routine work to do,--he existed no longer in the inner world of the cabinet. He had differed, men said, with his friend and chief, the Prime Minister, as to the expediency of repealing what were left of the direct taxes of the country, and was prepared to launch himself into opposition with his small bodyguard of followers, with all his energy and with all his venom.

Parliament opened that year on the twelfth of February, and Mr. Palliser was one of the first members of the House of Commons to take his seat. During the last week, rumour had spread through the country that the present Chancellor of the Exchequer had differed with the Prime Minister over repealing direct taxes, and that he was prepared to leave the Cabinet and launch himself into opposition with his small bodyguard of followers, with all his energy and venom.


There is something very pleasant in the close, bosom friendship, and bitter, uncompromising animosity, of these human gods,--of these human beings who would be gods were they not shorn so short of their divinity in that matter of immortality. If it were so arranged that the same persons were always friends, and the same persons were always enemies, as used to be the case among the dear old heathen gods and goddesses;--if Parliament were an Olympus in which Juno and Venus never kissed, the thing would not be nearly so interesting. But in this Olympus partners are changed, the divine bosom, now rabid with hatred against some opposing deity, suddenly becomes replete with love towards its late enemy, and exciting changes occur which give to the whole thing all the keen interest of a sensational novel. No doubt this is greatly lessened for those who come too near the scene of action. Members of Parliament, and the friends of Members of Parliament, are apt to teach themselves that it means nothing; that Lord This does not hate Mr. That, or think him a traitor to his country, or wish to crucify him; and that Sir John of the Treasury is not much in earnest when he speaks of his noble friend at the "Foreign Office" as a god to whom no other god was ever comparable in honesty, discretion, patriotism, and genius. But the outside Briton who takes a delight in politics,--and this description should include ninety-nine educated Englishmen out of every hundred,--should not be desirous of peeping behind the scenes. No beholder at any theatre should do so. It is good to believe in these friendships and these enmities, and very pleasant to watch their changes. It is delightful when Oxford embraces Manchester, finding that it cannot live without support in that quarter; and very delightful when the uncompromising assailant of all men in power receives the legitimate reward of his energy by being taken in among the bosoms of the blessed.

There is something very pleasant in the close friendship and bitter animosity of these human gods. If Parliamentary friendships and enmities never changed, the thing would not be nearly so interesting. But these sudden rabid hatreds or devout loves give to the whole thing all the keen interest of a sensational novel.
No doubt this is greatly lessened for those too near the scene of action. The outside Briton who takes a delight in politics - and this should include ninety-nine educated Englishmen out of every hundred - should not desire to peep behind the scenes. No beholder at any theatre should do so. It is good to believe in these friendships and these enmities, and very pleasant to watch their changes.


But although the outer world was so sure that the existing Chancellor of the Exchequer had ceased to exist, when the House of Commons met that gentleman took his seat on the Treasury Bench. Mr. Palliser, who had by no means given a general support to the Ministry in the last Session, took his seat on the same side of the House indeed, but low down, and near to the cross benches. Mr. Bott sat close behind him, and men knew that Mr. Bott was a distinguished member of Mr. Palliser's party, whatever that party might be. Lord Cinquebars moved the Address, and I must confess that he did it very lamely. He was once accused by Mr. Maxwell, the brewer, of making a great noise in the hunting-field. The accusation could not be repeated as to his performance on this occasion, as no one could hear a word that he said. The Address was seconded by Mr. Loftus Fitzhoward, a nephew of the Duke of St. Bungay, who spoke as though he were resolved to trump poor Lord Cinquebars in every sentence which he pronounced,--as we so often hear the second clergyman from the Communion Table trumping his weary predecessor, who has just finished the Litany not in the clearest or most audible voice. Every word fell from Mr. Fitzhoward with the elaborate accuracy of a separate pistol-shot; and as he became pleased with himself in his progress, and warm with his work, he accented his words sharply, made rhetorical pauses, even moved his hands about in action, and quite disgusted his own party, who had been very well satisfied with Lord Cinquebars. There are many rocks which a young speaker in Parliament should avoid, but no rock which requires such careful avoiding as the rock of eloquence. Whatever may be his faults, let him at least avoid eloquence.

But although the outer world was so sure that the existing Chancellor of the Exchequer had ceased to exist, when the House of Commons met that gentleman took his seat on the Treasury Bench. Mr. Palliser took his seat on the same side of the House, but low down, near to the cross benches, with Mr. Bott close behind.
Lord Cinquebars moved the Address, and I must confess that he did it very lamely. No one could hear a word that he said. The Address was seconded by Mr. Loftus Fitzhoward, a nephew of the Duke of St. Bungay, who spoke as though he were resolved to out-do poor Lord Cinquebars, so that every word fell from him with the elaborate accuracy of a pistol-shot. He made rhetorical pauses, and even gesticulated in a way that quite disgusted his own party. A young speaker in Parliament should be careful to avoid eloquence.


He should not be inaccurate, which, however, is not much; he should not be long-winded, which is a good deal; he should not be ill-tempered, which is more; but none of these faults are so damnable as eloquence. All Mr. Fitzhoward's friends and all his enemies knew that he had had his chance, and that he had thrown it away.

All Mr. Fitzhoward's friends and enemies knew that he had had his chance, and that he had thrown it away.


In the Queen's Speech there had been some very lukewarm allusion to remission of direct taxation. This remission, which had already been carried so far, should be carried further if such further carrying were found practicable. So had said the Queen. Those words, it was known, could not have been approved of by the energetic and still existing Chancellor of the Exchequer. On this subject the mover of the Address said never a word, and the seconder only a word or two. What they had said had, of course, been laid down for them; though, unfortunately, the manner of saying could not be so easily prescribed. Then there arose a great enemy, a man fluent of diction, apparently with deep malice at his heart, though at home,--as we used to say at school,--one of the most good-natured fellows in the world; one ambitious of that godship which a seat on the other side of the House bestowed, and greedy to grasp at the chances which this disagreement in the councils of the gods might give him. He was quite content, he said, to vote for the Address, as, he believed, would be all the gentlemen on his side of the House. No one could suspect them or him of giving a factious opposition to Government. Had they not borne and forborne beyond all precedent known in that House?

In the Queen's Speech there had been some very lukewarm allusion to remission of direct taxation. Those words could not have been approved of by the existing Chancellor of the Exchequer. Next there arose a great enemy, an ambitious, fluent man, apparently with deep malice at his heart, though one of the most good-natured fellows in the world. He was quite content, he said, to vote for the Address, as, he believed, would be all the gentlemen on his side of the House.