A scene there was, of course, between Alice and Lady Midlothian;--a scene in private. "You must go through it," Lady Glencora had said, with jocose mournfulness; "and why should you not let her jump upon you a little? It can't hurt you now."

Of course there was a scene in private between Alice and Lady Midlothian.
"You must go through it," Lady Glencora had said, with joking mournfulness; "and why should you not let her jump upon you a little? It can't hurt you now."


"But I don't like people to jump upon me," Alice said.


"And why are you to have everything just as you like it? You are so unreasonable. Think how I've been jumped on! Think what I have borne from them! If you knew the things she used to say to me, you would not be such a coward. I was sent down to her for a week, and had no power of helping myself. And the Marchioness used to be sent for to look at me, for she never talks. She used to look at me, and groan, and hold up her hands till I hated her the worst of the two. Think what they did to me, and yet they are my dear friends now. Why should you escape altogether?"

"Why are you to have everything just as you like it? Think how I've been jumped on! If you knew the things she used to say to me, you would not be such a coward. And the Marchioness used to look at me, and groan, and hold up her hands till I hated her the worse of the two. Yet they are my dear friends now. Why should you escape altogether?"


Alice could not escape altogether, and therefore was closeted with Lady Midlothian for the best part of an hour. "Did Lady Macleod read to you what I wrote?" the Countess asked.


"Yes,--that is, she gave me the letter to read."


"You suppose so, my dear! If you only suppose so I shall not be contented. I want you to appreciate my feelings towards you thoroughly. I want you to know that I am most anxious as to your future life, and that I am thoroughly satisfied with the step you are now taking." The Countess paused, but Alice said nothing. Her tongue was itching to tell the old woman that she cared nothing for this expression of satisfaction; but she was aware that she had done much that was deserving of punishment, and resolved to take this as part of her penance. She was being jumped upon, and it was unpleasant; but, after all that had happened, it was only fitting that she should undergo much unpleasantness. "Thoroughly satisfied," continued the Countess; "and now, I only wish to refer, in the slightest manner possible, to what took place between us when we were both of us under this roof last winter."

"You suppose so, my dear! I am most anxious about your future life, and am thoroughly satisfied with the step you are now taking." The Countess paused, but Alice said nothing. She was being jumped upon, and it was unpleasant; but, after all that had happened, it was only fitting that she should undergo much unpleasantness.
"Thoroughly satisfied," continued the Countess; "and now, I only wish to refer, in the slightest manner possible, to what took place between us last winter."


"Why refer to it at all, Lady Midlothian?"


"Because I think it may do good, and because I cannot make you understand that I have thoroughly forgiven everything, unless I tell you that I have forgiven that also. On that occasion I had come all the way from Scotland on purpose to say a few words to you."

"Because I think it may do good, and because I wish to tell you that I have forgiven that also. On that occasion I had come all the way from Scotland on purpose to say a few words to you."


"I am so sorry that you should have had the trouble."


"I do not regret it, Alice. I never do regret doing anything which I believe to have been my duty. There is no knowing how far what I said then may have operated for good." Alice thought that she knew very well, but she said nothing. "I must confess that what I then understood to be your obstinacy,--and I must say also, if I tell the truth, your indifference to--to--to all prudential considerations whatever, not to talk of appearances and decorum, and I might say, anything like a high line of duty or moral conduct,--shocked me very much. It did, indeed, my dear. Taking it altogether, I don't know that I was ever more shocked in my life. The thing was so inscrutable!" Here Lady Midlothian held up one hand in a manner that was truly imposing; "so inscrutable! But that is all over now. What was personally offensive to myself I could easily forgive, and I do forgive it. I shall never think of it any more." Here Lady Midlothian put up both her hands gently, as though wafting the injury away into the air. "But what I wish specially to say to you is this; your own conduct is forgiven also!" Here she paused again, and Alice winced. Who was this dreadful old Countess;--what was the Countess to her, that she should be thus tormented with the old woman's forgiveness? John Grey had forgiven her, and of external forgiveness that was enough. She had not forgiven herself,--would never forgive herself altogether; and the pardon of no old woman in England could assist her in doing so. She had sinned, but she had not sinned against Lady Midlothian. "Let her jump upon you, and have done with it," Lady Glencora had said. She had resolved that it should be so, but it was very hard to keep her resolution.

"I do not regret it, Alice. I never do regret doing anything which I believe to be my duty. I must confess that what I then understood to be your obstinacy, and in truth, your indifference to all prudential considerations, shocked me very much. It did, indeed, my dear. I don't know that I was ever more shocked in my life!" Here Lady Midlothian held up one hand in an imposing manner. "But that is all over now. I forgive and forget it. I shall never think of it any more."
Here Lady Midlothian put up both her hands as though wafting the injury away into the air. "But what I wish specially to say to you is this; your own conduct is forgiven also!" Here she paused again, and Alice winced. What was the Countess to her, that she should be thus tormented with the old woman's forgiveness? John Grey had forgiven her, and that was enough. She had not forgiven herself; and no old woman in England could help her do so. She had sinned, but not against Lady Midlothian.


"The Marchioness and I have talked it over," continued Lady Midlothian, "and she has asked me to speak for both her and myself." There is comfort at any rate in that, thought Alice, who had never yet seen the Marchioness. "We have resolved that all those little mistakes should be as though they had never been committed. We shall both be most happy to receive you and your husband, who is, I must say, one of the most gentlemanlike looking men I ever saw. It seems that he and Mr. Palliser are on most friendly,--I may say, most confidential terms, and that must be quite a pleasure to you."

"The Marchioness and I have talked it over," continued Lady Midlothian, "and she has asked me to speak for her. We have resolved that all those little mistakes should be as though they had never been committed. We shall both be most happy to receive you and your husband, who is, I must say, one of the most gentlemanly men I ever saw. It seems that he and Mr. Palliser are on most friendly terms, and that must be quite a pleasure to you."


"It's a pleasure to him, which is more to the purpose," said Alice.


"Exactly so. And now, my dear, everything is forgiven and shall be forgotten. Come and give me a kiss, and let me wish you joy." Alice did as she was bidden, and accepted the kiss and the congratulations, and a little box of jewellery which Lady Midlothian produced from out of her pocket. "The diamonds are from the Marchioness, my dear, whose means, as you doubtless are aware, greatly exceed my own. The garnets are from me. I hope they may both be worn long and happily."

"Exactly so. And now, my dear, come and give me a kiss, and let me wish you joy."
Alice accepted the kiss and the congratulations, and a little box of jewellery which Lady Midlothian produced from out of her pocket.
"The diamonds are from the Marchioness, my dear, whose means, as you doubtless are aware, greatly exceed my own. The garnets are from me. I hope they may both be worn long and happily."


I hardly know which was the worst, the lecture, the kiss, or the present. The latter she would have declined, had it been possible; but it was not possible. When she had agreed to be married at Matching she had not calculated the amount of punishment which would thereby be inflicted on her. But I think that, though she bore it impatiently, she was aware that she had deserved it. Although she fretted herself greatly under the infliction of Lady Midlothian, she acknowledged to herself, even at the time, that she deserved all the lashes she received. She had made a fool of herself in her vain attempt to be greater and grander than other girls, and it was only fair that her folly should be in some sort punished before it was fully pardoned. John Grey punished it after one fashion; by declining to allude to it, or to think of it, or to take any account of it. And now Lady Midlothian had punished it after another fashion, and Alice went out of the Countess's presence with sundry inward exclamations of "mea culpa," and with many unseen beatings of the breast.

I hardly know which was the worst, the lecture, the kiss, or the present. The last Alice would have declined; but it was not possible. Although she fretted greatly under the infliction of Lady Midlothian, she acknowledged to herself that she deserved all the lashes she received. She had made a fool of herself in her vain attempt to be greater and grander than other girls, and it was only fair that her folly should be punished before it was fully pardoned. John Grey punished it after one fashion, by declining to allude to it, or to take any account of it. And now Lady Midlothian had punished it after another fashion.


Two days before the ceremony came the Marchioness and her august daughter. Her Lady Jane was much more august than the other Lady Jane;--very much more august indeed. She had very long flaxen hair, and very light blue eyes, which she did not move frequently, and she spoke very little,--one may almost say not at all, and she never seemed to do anything. But she was very august, and was, as all the world knew, engaged to marry the Duke of Dumfriesshire, who, though twice her own age, was as yet childless, as soon as he should have completed his mourning for his first wife. Kate told her cousin that she did not at all know how she should ever stand up as one in a group with so august a person as this Lady Jane, and Alice herself felt that such an attendant would quite obliterate her. But Lady Jane and her mother were both harmless. The Marchioness never spoke to Kate and hardly spoke to Alice, and the Marchioness's Lady Jane was quite as silent as her mother.

Two days before the ceremony the Marchioness and her daughter came. Lady Jane was very much more august than the other Lady Jane. She had very long flaxen hair, and very light blue eyes, and she spoke very little, and she never seemed to do anything. But she was very august, and was engaged to marry the Duke of Dumfriesshire, though he was twice her age, as soon as he had completed his mourning for his first wife. But Lady Jane and her mother were both harmless. The Marchioness never spoke to Kate and hardly spoke to Alice, and Lady Jane was quite as silent as her mother.


On the morning of this day,--the day on which these very august people came,--a telegram arrived at the Priory calling for Mr. Palliser's immediate presence in London. He came to Alice full of regret, and behaved himself very nicely. Alice now regarded him quite as a friend. "Of course I understand," she said, "and I know that the business which takes you up to London pleases you." "Well; yes;--it does please me. I am glad,--I don't mind saying so to you. But it does not please me to think that I shall be away at your marriage. Pray make your father understand that it was absolutely unavoidable. But I shall see him, of course, when I come back. And I shall see you too before very long."

On the morning after their arrival, a telegram arrived for Mr. Palliser calling for his immediate presence in London. He came, full of regret, to Alice, who now regarded him quite as a friend.
"Of course I understand," she said, "and I know that the business which takes you up to London pleases you."
"Well; yes; it does. But it does not please me to think that I shall be away at your marriage. Pray make your father understand that it was absolutely unavoidable. But I shall see him, of course, when I come back. And I shall see you too before very long."


"Because Mr. Grey must be at Silverbridge for his election.--But perhaps I ought not tell you his secrets." Then he took her into the breakfast-parlour and showed her his present. It was a service of Svres china,--very precious and beautiful. "I got you these things because Grey likes china."

"Because Mr. Grey must be at Silverbridge for his election. But perhaps I ought not tell you his secrets." Then he took her into the breakfast-parlour and showed her his present. It was a service of Svres china, very precious and beautiful. "I got you these things because Grey likes china."


"So do I like china," said she, with her face brighter than he had ever yet seen it.

"So do I," said she, her face brighter than he had ever yet seen it.


"I thought you would like them best," said he. Alice looking up at him with her eyes full of tears told him that she did like them best; and then, as he wished her all happiness, and as he was stooping over her to kiss her, Lady Glencora came in.

"I thought you would like them best," said he. Alice, looking up at him with her eyes full of tears, told him that she did like them best; and then, as he wished her all happiness, and was stooping over her to kiss her, Lady Glencora came in.


"I beg pardon," said she, "I was just one minute too soon; was I not?"


"She would have them sent here and unpacked," said Mr. Palliser, "though I told her it was foolish."


"Of course I would," said Lady Glencora. "Everything shall be unpacked and shown. It's easy to get somebody to pack them again."

All the wedding gifts are displayed here. It's easy to get somebody to pack them again."


Much of the wedding tribute had already been deposited with the china, and among other things there were the jewels that Lady Midlothian had brought.

Among the wedding gifts were the jewels that Lady Midlothian had brought.


"Upon my word, her ladyship's diamonds are not to be sneezed at," said Lady Glencora.


"I don't care for diamonds," said Alice.


Then Lady Glencora took up the Countess's trinkets, and shook her head and turned up her nose. There was a wonderfully comic expression on her face as she did so.

Lady Glencora took up the Countess's trinkets, and shook her head and turned up her nose with a wonderfully comic expression.


"To me they are just as good as the others," said Alice.


"To me they are not, then," said Lady Glencora. "Diamonds are diamonds, and garnets are garnets; and I am not so romantic but what I know the difference."

"To me they are not," said Lady Glencora. "Diamonds are diamonds, and garnets are garnets."


On the evening before the marriage Alice and Lady Glencora walked for the last time through the Priory ruins. It was now September, and the evenings were still long, so that the ladies could get out upon the lawn after dinner. Whether Lady Glencora would have been allowed to walk through the ruins so late as half-past eight in the evening if her husband had been there may be doubtful, but her husband was away and she took this advantage of his absence.

On the evening before the wedding Alice and Lady Glencora walked for the last time through the Priory ruins. It was now September, and the evenings were still long. Whether Lady Glencora would have been allowed to walk through the ruins at half-past eight in the evening if her husband had been there may be doubtful, but her husband was away.


"Do you remember that night we were here?" said Lady Glencora.


"When shall I forget it; or how is it possible that such a night should ever be forgotten?"


"No; I shall never forget it. Oh dear, what wonderful things have happened since that! Do you ever think of Jeffrey?"

"Oh dear, what wonderful things have happened since that! Do you ever think of Jeffrey?"


"Yes;--of course I think of him. I did like him so much. I hope I shall see him some day."

"Yes, of course. I did like him so much. I hope I shall see him some day."


"And he liked you too, young woman; and, what was more, young woman, I thought at one time that, perhaps, you were going to like him in earnest."

"And he liked you too; and, what was more, I thought at one time that you were going to like him in earnest."


"You've done much better, of course; especially as poor Jeffrey's chance of promotion doesn't look so good now. If I have a boy, I wonder whether he'll hate me?"

"You've done much better, of course. If I have a boy, I wonder whether Jeffrey will hate me?


"I can't help it, you know, if he does. Only think what it is to Plantagenet. Have you seen the difference it makes in him already?"

I can't help it if he does. Only think what it is to Plantagenet. Have you seen the difference it makes in him already?"


"Of course it makes a difference;--the greatest difference in the world."

"Of course it makes a difference; the greatest difference in the world."


"And think what it will be to me, Alice. I used to lie in bed and wish myself dead, and make up my mind to drown myself,--if I could only dare. I shan't think any more of that poor fellow now." Then she told Alice what had been done for Burgo; how his uncle had paid his bills once again, and had agreed to give him a small income. "Poor fellow!" said Lady Glencora, "it won't do more than buy him gloves, you know."

"And think what it will be to me, Alice. I used to wish myself dead. I shan't think any more of that poor fellow now." Then she told Alice what had been done for Burgo. "Poor fellow!" said Lady Glencora, "that allowance won't do more than buy him gloves, you know."


The marriage was magnificent, greatly to the dismay of Alice and to the discomfort of Mr. Vavasor, who came down on the eve of the ceremony,--arriving while his daughter and Lady Glencora were in the ruins. Mr. Grey seemed to take it all very easily, and, as Lady Glencora said, played his part exactly as though he were in the habit of being married, at any rate, once a year. "Nothing on earth will ever put him out, so you need not try, my dear," she said, as Alice stood with her a moment alone in the dressing-room up-stairs before her departure.

The wedding was magnificent, greatly to the dismay of Alice and to the discomfort of Mr. Vavasor, who arrived while his daughter and Lady Glencora were in the ruins. Mr. Grey seemed to take it all very easily, and, as Lady Glencora said, played his part exactly as though he were in the habit of being married once a year.
"Nothing on earth will ever put him out, so you need not try, my dear," she said, as Alice stood with her a moment alone.


"I know that," said Alice, "and therefore I shall never try."

"I know," said Alice, "and therefore I shall never try."


It was the butler who had knocked,--showing that the knock was of more importance than it would have been had it been struck by the knuckles of the footman in livery. "If you please, sir, the Duke of St. Bungay is here."

It was the butler who had knocked. "If you please, sir, the Duke of St. Bungay is here."

Chapter 59: The Duke of St. Bungay in Search of a Minister


"The Duke of St. Bungay!" said Mr. Palliser, becoming rather red as he heard the announcement.

"The Duke of St. Bungay!" said Mr. Palliser, becoming rather red.


"Yes, sir, his grace is in the library. He bade me tell you that he particularly wanted to see you; so I told him that you were with my lady."

"Yes, sir, his grace is in the library. He says that he particularly wants to see you; so I told him that you were with my lady."


"Quite right; tell his grace that I will be with him in two minutes." Then the butler retired, and Mr. Palliser was again alone with his wife.

"Quite right; tell his grace that I will be with him in two minutes." The butler retired.


"I must go now, my dear," he said; "and perhaps I shall not see you again till the evening."

"I must go now, my dear," said Mr. Palliser; "and perhaps I shall not see you again till the evening."


"Don't let me put you out in any way," she answered.


"Oh no;--you won't put me out. You will be dressing, I suppose, about nine."

"You won't. You will be dressing for dinner, I suppose, about nine."


"I did not mean as to that," she answered. "You must not think more of Italy. He has come to tell you that you are wanted in the Cabinet."

"I did not mean that," she said. "You must not think any more of Italy. He has come to tell you that you are wanted in the Cabinet."


Again he turned very red. "It may be so," he answered, "but though I am wanted, I need not go. But I must not keep the duke waiting. Good-bye." And he turned to the door.


She followed him and took hold of him as he went, so that he was forced to turn to her once again. She managed to get hold of both his hands, and pressed them closely, looking up into his face with her eyes laden with tears. He smiled at her gently, returned the pressure of the hands, and then left her,--without kissing her. It was not that he was minded not to kiss her. He would have kissed her willingly enough had he thought that the occasion required it. "He says that he loves me," said Lady Glencora to herself, "but he does not know what love means."

She followed him and took hold of him, so that he was forced to turn to her once again. She managed to get hold of both his hands, and pressed them closely, looking up with her eyes laden with tears. He smiled at her gently, returned the pressure of the hands, and then left her - without kissing her. He did not think that the occasion required it.
"He says that he loves me," said Lady Glencora to herself, "but he does not know what love means."


But she was quite aware that he had behaved to her with genuine, true nobility. As soon as she was alone and certain of her solitude, she took out that letter from her pocket, and tearing it into very small fragments, without reading it, threw the pieces on the fire. As she did so, her mind seemed to be fixed, at any rate, to one thing,--that she would think no more of Burgo Fitzgerald as her future master. I think, however, that she had arrived at so much certainty as this, at that moment in which she had been parting with Burgo Fitzgerald, in Lady Monk's dining-room. She had had courage enough,--or shall we rather say sin enough,--to think of going with him,--to tell herself that she would do so; to put herself in the way of doing it; nay, she had had enough of both to enable her to tell her husband that she had resolved that it would be good for her to do so. But she was neither bold enough nor wicked enough to do the thing. As she had said of her own idea of destroying herself,--she did not dare to take the plunge. Therefore, knowing now that it was so, she tore up the letter that she had carried so long, and burnt it in the fire.

But she was quite aware that he had behaved to her with genuine, true nobility. As soon as she was alone, she took out Burgo's letter from her pocket, and tearing it into very small fragments, threw the pieces on the fire. As she did so, she resolved that she would think no more of Burgo Fitzgerald as her future master.
I think, however, that she had already decided it, when she had had courage enough to tell her husband about it. She was neither bold enough nor wicked enough to do the thing. As she had said of her own idea of destroying herself, she did not dare. Therefore she tore up the letter that she had carried so long, and burnt it in the fire.


She had in truth told him everything, believing that in doing so she was delivering her own death-warrant as regarded her future position in his house. She had done this, not hoping thereby for any escape; not with any purpose as regarded herself, but simply because deceit had been grievous to her, and had become unendurable as soon as his words and manner had in them any feeling of kindness. But her confession had no sooner been made than her fault had been forgiven. She had told him that she did not love him. She had told him, even, that she had thought of leaving him. She had justified by her own words any treatment of his, however harsh, which he might choose to practise. But the result had been--the immediate result--that he had been more tender to her than she had ever remembered him to be before. She knew that he had conquered her. However cold and heartless his home might be to her, it must be her home now. There could be no further thought of leaving him. She had gone out into the tiltyard and had tilted with him, and he had been the victor.

She had in truth told him everything, believing that she was delivering her own death-warrant regarding her future position in his house. She had done this, not hoping for any escape, but simply because deceit had been grievous to her, and had become unbearable as soon as he showed any kindness.
But her confession had no sooner been made than her fault had been forgiven. She had told him that she did not love him. She had told him, even, that she had thought of leaving him. But the immediate result was that he had been more tender to her than ever before. She knew that he had conquered her. However cold and heartless his home might be to her, it must be her home now. There could be no further thought of leaving him. She had tilted with him, and he had been the victor.


Mr. Palliser himself had not time for much thought before he found himself closeted with the Duke; but as he crossed the hall and went up the stairs, a thought or two did pass quickly across his mind. She had confessed to him, and he had forgiven her. He did not feel quite sure that he had been right, but he did feel quite sure that the thing had been done. He recognized it for a fact that, as regarded the past, no more was to be said. There were to be no reproaches, and there must be some tacit abandoning of Mrs. Marsham's close attendance. As to Mr. Bott;--he had begun to hate Mr. Bott, and had felt cruelly ungrateful, when that gentleman endeavoured to whisper a word into his ear as he passed through the doorway into Lady Monk's dining-room. And he had offered to go abroad,--to go abroad and leave his politics, and his ambition, and his coming honours. He had persisted in his offer, even after his wife had suggested to him that the Duke of St. Bungay was now in the house with the object of offering him that very thing for which he had so longed! As he thought of this his heart became heavy within him. Such chances,--so he told himself,--do not come twice in a man's way. When returning from a twelvemonth's residence abroad he would be nobody in politics. He would have lost everything for which he had been working all his life. But he was a man of his word, and as he opened the library door he was resolute,--he thought that he could be resolute in adhering to his promise.

Mr. Palliser had not time for much thought before he found himself closeted with the Duke; but as he went upstairs, a thought or two did pass quickly across his mind. He did not feel quite sure that he had been right to forgive her, but he did feel quite sure that the thing had been done. He recognized that no more was to be said about the past. There were to be no reproaches, and Mrs. Marsham's close attendance must abate. As for Mr. Bott - he had begun to hate Mr. Bott.
And he had offered to go abroad, and leave his politics, and his ambition, and his coming honours. He had persisted in his offer, even after his wife had suggested to him that the Duke of St. Bungay was in the house to offer him that very thing for which he had so longed! As he thought of this his heart became heavy. Such chances - so he told himself - do not come twice in a man's way. When he returned from abroad he would be nobody in politics. He would have lost everything for which he had been working all his life. But he was a man of his word, and as he opened the library door he thought that he could be resolute in keeping to his promise.


"Duke," he said, "I'm afraid I have kept you waiting." And the two political allies shook each other by the hand.

"Duke," he said, "I'm afraid I have kept you waiting." And they shook hands.


The Duke was in a glow of delight. There had been no waiting. He was only too glad to find his friend at home. He had been prepared to wait, even if Mr. Palliser had been out. "And I suppose you guess why I'm come?" said the Duke.

The Duke was in a glow of delight. "I suppose you guess why I'm come?" he said.


"I would rather be told than have to guess," said Mr. Palliser, smiling for a moment. But the smile quickly passed off his face as he remembered his pledge to his wife.


"He has resigned at last. What was said in the Lords last night made it necessary that he should do so, or that Lord Brock should declare himself able to support him through thick and thin. Of course, I can tell you everything now. He must have gone, or I must have done so. You know that I don't like him in the Cabinet. I admire his character and his genius, but I think him the most dangerous man in England as a statesman. He has high principles,--the very highest; but they are so high as to be out of sight to ordinary eyes. They are too exalted to be of any use for everyday purposes. He is honest as the sun, I'm sure; but it's just like the sun's honesty,--of a kind which we men below can't quite understand or appreciate. He has no instinct in politics, but reaches his conclusions by philosophical deduction. Now, in politics, I would a deal sooner trust to instinct than to calculation. I think he may probably know how England ought to be governed three centuries hence better than any man living, but of the proper way to govern it now, I think he knows less. Brock half likes him and half fears him. He likes the support of his eloquence, and he likes the power of the man; but he fears his restless activity, and thoroughly dislikes his philosophy. At any rate, he has left us, and I am here to ask you to take his place."

"He has resigned at last. What was said in the Lords last night made it necessary that he should do so. I can tell you everything now. You know that I don't like Finespun in the Cabinet. I admire his character and his genius, but I think him the most dangerous man in England as a statesman. He has high principles, but they are too exalted to be of any use for everyday purposes. He has no instinct in politics, but reaches his conclusions by calculation. I would sooner trust to instinct. I think he may know how England ought to be governed three centuries hence, but not the proper way to govern now. Brock likes his eloquence; but he fears his restlessness, and thoroughly dislikes his philosophy. At any rate, Finespun has left us, and I am here to ask you to take his place."


The Duke, as he concluded his speech, was quite contented, and almost jovial. He was thoroughly satisfied with the new political arrangement which he was proposing. He regarded Mr. Palliser as a steady, practical man of business, luckily young, and therefore with a deal of work in him, belonging to the race from which English ministers ought, in his opinion, to be taken, and as being, in some respects, his own pupil. He had been the first to declare aloud that Plantagenet Palliser was the coming Chancellor of the Exchequer; and it had been long known, though no such declaration had been made aloud, that the Duke did not sit comfortably in the same Cabinet with the gentleman who had now resigned. Everything had now gone as the Duke wished; and he was prepared to celebrate some little ovation with his young friend before he left the house in Park Lane.

The Duke was almost jovial. He was thoroughly satisfied with the arrangement which he was proposing. He regarded Mr. Palliser as a steady, practical man, and in some respects, his own pupil. He had been the first to declare aloud that Plantagenet Palliser was the future Chancellor of the Exchequer; and everything had now gone as he wished.


"And who goes out with him?" asked Mr. Palliser, putting off the evil moment of his own decision; but before the Duke could answer him, he had reminded himself that under his present circumstances he had no right to ask such a question. His own decision could not rest upon that point. "But it does not matter," he said; "I am afraid I must decline the offer you bring me."

"And who leaves with him?" asked Mr. Palliser, putting off the evil moment of his own decision; but before the Duke could answer, he had reminded himself that he had no right to ask such a question. "It does not matter," he said; "I am afraid I must decline the offer."


"Decline it!" said the Duke, who could not have been more surprised had his friend talked of declining heaven.


"I fear I must." The Duke had now risen from his chair, and was standing, with both his hands upon the table. All his contentment, all his joviality, had vanished. His fine round face had become almost ludicrously long; his eyes and mouth were struggling to convey reproach, and the reproach was almost drowned in vexation. Ever since Parliament had met he had been whispering Mr. Palliser's name into the Prime Minister's ear, and now--. But he could not, and would not, believe it. "Nonsense, Palliser," he said. "You must have got some false notion into your head. There can be no possible reason why you should not join us. Finespun himself will support us, at any rate for a time." Mr. Finespun was the gentleman whose retirement from the ministry the Duke of St. Bungay had now announced.

"I fear I must."
The Duke had now risen from his chair, and was standing with both his hands upon the table. All his joviality had vanished. His fine round face had become almost ludicrously long; his eyes and mouth expressed reproach and vexation. Ever since Parliament had met he had been whispering Mr. Palliser's name into the Prime Minister's ear, and now-
But he could not believe it. "Nonsense, Palliser," he said. "There can be no possible reason why you should not join us.


"It is nothing of that kind," said Mr. Palliser, who perhaps felt himself quite equal to the duties proposed to him, even though Mr. Finespun should not support him. "It is nothing of that kind;--it is no fear of that sort that hinders me."


"Then, for mercy's sake, what is it? My dear Palliser, I looked upon you as being as sure in this matter as myself; and I had a right to do so. You certainly intended to join us a month ago, if the opportunity offered. You certainly did."

You certainly intended to join us a month ago, if the opportunity offered."


"It is true, Duke. I must ask you to listen to me now, and I must tell you what I would not willingly tell to any man." As Mr. Palliser said this a look of agony came over his face. There are men who can talk easily of all their most inmost matters, but he was not such a man. It went sorely against the grain with him to speak of the sorrow of his home, even to such a friend as the Duke; but it was essentially necessary to him that he should justify himself.

"It is true, Duke. I must ask you to listen to me now, and I must tell you what I would not willingly tell to any man." As Mr. Palliser said this a look of agony came over his face. He was not a man who could talk easily of inmost matters; but it was essential to justify himself.


"Upon my word," said the Duke, "I can't understand that there should be any reason strong enough to make you throw your party over."


"I have promised to take my wife abroad."

"I have promised to take my wife abroad, at once."


"Is that it?" said the Duke, looking at him with surprise, but at the same time with something of returning joviality in his face. "Nobody thinks of going abroad at this time of the year. Of course, you can get away for a time when Parliament breaks up."


"Then, considering your position, you have made a promise which it behoves you to break. I am sure Lady Glencora will see it in that light."

"Then you have made a promise which it behoves you to break. I am sure Lady Glencora will see it in that light."


"You do not quite understand me, and I am afraid I must trouble you to listen to matters which, under other circumstances, it would be impertinent in me to obtrude upon you." A certain stiffness of demeanour, and measured propriety of voice, much at variance with his former manner, came upon him as he said this.

"You do not quite understand me." A certain stiffness of manner came upon him as he said this.


"Of course, Palliser, I don't want to interfere for a moment."


"If you will allow me, Duke. My wife has told me that, this morning, which makes me feel that absence from England is requisite for her present comfort. I was with her when you came, and had just promised her that she should go."

"My wife has told me something, this morning, which makes me feel that absence from England is necessary for her present comfort. I have just promised her that she should go."


"But, Palliser, think of it. If this were a small matter, I would not press you; but a man in your position has public duties. He owes his services to his country. He has no right to go back, if it be possible that he should so do."

"But, Palliser, think of it. If this were a small matter, I would not press you; but a man in your position owes his service to his country."


"When a man has given his word, it cannot be right that he should go back from that."


"Of course not. But a man may be absolved from a promise. Lady Glencora--"

"Of course not. But a man may be absolved from a promise. Lady Glencora-"


"My wife would, of course, absolve me. It is not that. Her happiness demands it, and it is partly my fault that it is so. I cannot explain to you more fully why it is that I must give up the great object for which I have striven with all my strength."


"Oh, no!" said the Duke. "If you are sure that it is imperative--"

"If you are sure that it is imperative-"


"I could give you twenty-four hours, you know." Mr. Palliser did not answer at once, and the Duke thought that he saw some sign of hesitation. "I suppose it would not be possible that I should speak to Lady Glencora?"


"It could be of no avail, Duke. She would only declare, at the first word, that she would remain in London; but it would not be the less my duty on that account to take her abroad."

"It could be of no avail, Duke. She would declare that she would remain in London; but it would still be my duty to take her abroad."


"Well; I can't say. Of course, I can't say. Such an opportunity may not come twice in a man's life. And at your age too! You are throwing away from you the finest political position that the world can offer to the ambition of any man. No one at your time of life has had such a chance within my memory. That a man under thirty should be thought fit to be Chancellor of the Exchequer, and should refuse it,--because he wants to take his wife abroad! Palliser, if she were dying, you should remain under such an emergency as this. She might go, but you should remain."

"Well; I can't say. Such an opportunity may not come twice in a man's life. You are throwing away the finest political position that the world can offer. No one as young as you has had such a chance within my memory. That a man under thirty should be thought fit to be Chancellor of the Exchequer, and should refuse it - because he wants to take his wife abroad! Palliser, if she were dying, you should remain under such an emergency as this. She might go, but you should remain."


Mr. Palliser remained silent for a moment or two in his chair; he then rose and walked towards the window, as he spoke. "There are things worse than death," he said, when his back was turned. His voice was very low, and there was a tear in his eye as he spoke them; the words were indeed whispered, but the Duke heard them, and felt that he could not press him any more on the subject of his wife.

Mr. Palliser remained silent for a moment or two; he then rose and walked towards the window.
"There are things worse than death," he said, when his back was turned. His voice was very low, and there was a tear in his eye as he spoke. The Duke felt that he could not press him any more on the subject.


"And must this be final?" said the Duke.


"I think it must. But your visit here has come so quickly on my resolution to go abroad,--which, in truth, was only made ten minutes before your name was brought to me,--that I believe I ought to ask for a portion of those twenty-four hours which you have offered me. A small portion will be enough. Will you see me, if I come to you this evening, say at eight? If the House is up in the Lords I will go to you in St. James's Square."

"I think it must. But your visit here has come so quickly after my resolution to go abroad, that I believe I ought to ask for some of those twenty-four hours which you have offered me. May I come to you this evening, say at eight? If the House is up in the Lords I will go to you in St. James's Square."


"We shall be sitting after eight, I think."


"Then I will see you there. And, Duke, I must ask you to think of me in this matter as a friend should think, and not as though we were bound together only by party feeling."


"I have told you what I shall never whisper to any one else."

"I have told you what I shall never whisper to anyone else."


"I think you know that you are safe with me."


"I am sure of it. And, Duke, I can tell you that the sacrifice to me will be almost more than I can bear. This thing that you have offered me to-day is the only thing that I have ever coveted. I have thought of it and worked for it, have hoped and despaired, have for moments been vain enough to think that it was within my strength, and have been wretched for weeks together because I have told myself that it was utterly beyond me."

"I am sure of it. And, Duke, I can tell you that the sacrifice will be almost more than I can bear. The post that you have offered me today is the only thing that I have ever coveted. I have thought of it and worked for it, have hoped and despaired, and have been wretched for weeks together because I have told myself that it was utterly beyond me."


"As to that, neither Brock nor I, nor any of us, have any doubt. Finespun himself says that you are the man."

"As to that, neither Brock nor I have any doubt. Finespun himself says that you are the man."


"I am much obliged to them. But I say all this simply that you may understand how imperative is the duty which, as I think, requires me to refuse the offer."

"I am much obliged. But I say this simply so that you may understand how imperative is the duty which requires me to refuse the offer."


"But you haven't refused as yet," said the Duke. "I shall wait at the House for you, whether they are sitting or not. And endeavour to join us. Do the best you can. I will say nothing as to that duty of which you speak; but if it can be made compatible with your public service, pray--pray let it be done. Remember how much such a one as you owes to his country." Then the Duke went, and Mr. Palliser was alone.

"But you haven't refused yet," said the Duke. "I shall wait at the House for you, Try to join us. Do the best you can. Remember what a man like you owes to his country." Then the Duke went, and Mr. Palliser was alone.


He had not been alone before since the revelation which had been made to him by his wife, and the words she had spoken were still sounding in his ears. "I do love Burgo Fitzgerald;--I do! I do! I do!" They were not pleasant words for a young husband to hear. Men there are, no doubt, whose nature would make them more miserable under the infliction than it had made Plantagenet Palliser. He was calm, without strong passion, not prone to give to words a stronger significance than they should bear;--and he was essentially unsuspicious. Never for a moment had he thought, even while those words were hissing in his ears, that his wife had betrayed his honour. Nevertheless, there was that at his heart, as he remembered those words, which made him feel that the world was almost too heavy for him. For the first quarter of an hour after the Duke's departure he thought more of his wife and of Burgo Fitzgerald than he did of Lord Brock and Mr. Finespun. But of this he was aware,--that he had forgiven his wife; that he had put his arm round her and embraced her after hearing her confession,--and that she, mutely, with her eyes, had promised him that she would do her best for him. Then something of an idea of love came across his heart, and he acknowledged to himself that he had married without loving or without requiring love. Much of all this had been his own fault. Indeed, had not the whole of it come from his own wrong-doing? He acknowledged that it was so. But now,--now he loved her. He felt that he could not bear to part with her, even if there were no question of public scandal, or of disgrace. He had been torn inwardly by that assertion that she loved another man. She had got at his heart-strings at last. There are men who may love their wives, though they never can have been in love before their marriage.

He had not been alone since the revelation which had been made to him by his wife, and the words she had spoken were still sounding in his ears. "I do love Burgo Fitzgerald; I do! I do!"
They were not pleasant words for a young husband to hear. Plantagenet Palliser was a calm man, without strong passion; and he was essentially unsuspicious. Never for a moment had he thought, even while those words were hissing in his ears, that his wife had betrayed his honour. Nevertheless, the memory of those words made him feel that the world was almost too heavy for him. For the first quarter of an hour after the Duke's departure he thought more of his wife and of Burgo Fitzgerald than he did of Lord Brock and Mr. Finespun. But he was aware that he had forgiven his wife; and she, mutely, with her eyes, had promised him that she would do her best for him.
Then something of an idea of love came across his heart, and he acknowledged to himself that he had married without loving or without requiring love. Much of all this had been his own fault. But now - now he loved her. He felt that he could not bear to part with her. He had been torn inwardly by that assertion that she loved another man. She had got at his heart-strings at last.


When the Duke had been gone about an hour, and when, under ordinary circumstances, it would have been his time to go down to the House, he took his hat and walked into the Park. He made his way across Hyde Park, and into Kensington Gardens, and there he remained for an hour, walking up and down beneath the elms. The quidnuncs of the town, who chanced to see him, and who had heard something of the political movements of the day, thought, no doubt, that he was meditating his future ministerial career. But he had not been there long before he had resolved that no ministerial career was at present open to him. "It has been my own fault," he said, as he returned to his house, "and with God's help I will mend it, if it be possible."

When the Duke had been gone about an hour, he took his hat and walked out. He made his way across Hyde Park, and into Kensington Gardens, and there he remained for an hour, walking up and down beneath the elms. He had not been there long before he had resolved that no ministerial career was at present open to him.
"It has been my own fault," he said, as he returned to his house, "and with God's help I will mend it, if it be possible."


But he was a slow man, and he did not go off instantly to the Duke. He had given himself to eight o'clock, and he took the full time. He could not go down to the House of Commons because men would make inquiries of him which he would find it difficult to answer. So he dined at home, alone. He had told his wife that he would see her at nine, and before that hour he would not go to her. He sat alone till it was time for him to get into his brougham, and thought it all over. That seat in the Cabinet and Chancellorship of the Exchequer, which he had so infinitely desired, were already done with. There was no doubt about that. It might have been better for him not to have married; but now that he was married, and that things had brought him untowardly to this pass, he knew that his wife's safety was his first duty. "We will go through Switzerland," he said to himself, "to Baden, and then we will get on to Florence and to Rome. She has seen nothing of all these things yet, and the new life will make a change in her. She shall have her own friend with her." Then he went down to the House of Lords, and saw the Duke.

But he was a slow man, and he did not go off instantly to the Duke. He had given himself till eight o'clock, and he took the full time. He could not go down to the House of Commons because men would make inquiries of him which he would find it difficult to answer. So he dined at home, alone, and thought it all over. That seat in the Cabinet and Chancellorship of the Exchequer, which he had so infinitely desired, were already done with. There was no doubt about that. It might have been better for him not to have married; but now that he was married, he knew that his wife's safety was his first duty.
"We will go through Switzerland," he said to himself, "to Baden, and then on to Florence and to Rome. She has seen nothing of all these things yet, and the new life will make a change in her. She shall have her friend with her." Then he went down to the House of Lords, and saw the Duke.


"Well, Palliser," said the Duke, when he had listened to him, "of course I cannot argue it with you any more. I can only say that I am very sorry;--more sorry than perhaps you will believe. Indeed, it half breaks my heart." The Duke's voice was very sad, and it might almost have been thought that he was going to shed a tear. In truth he disliked Mr. Finespun with the strongest political feeling of which he was capable, and had attached himself to Mr. Palliser almost as strongly. It was a thousand pities! How hard had he not worked to bring about this arrangement, which was now to be upset because a woman had been foolish! "I never above half liked her," said the Duke to himself, thinking perhaps a little of the Duchess's complaints of her. "I must go to Brock at once," he said aloud, "and tell him. God knows what we must do now. Goodbye! good-bye! No; I'm not angry. There shall be no quarrel. But I am very sorry." In this way the two politicians parted.

"Well, Palliser," said the Duke, when he had listened to him, "I can only say that I am very sorry. Indeed, it half breaks my heart." The Duke's voice was very sad. In truth he disliked Mr. Finespun strongly, and had attached himself to Mr. Palliser almost as strongly. It was a thousand pities! "I must go to Brock at once," he said, "and tell him. God knows what we must do now. Goodbye! No; I'm not angry. But I am very sorry." In this way the two politicians parted.


We may as well follow this political movement to its end. The Duke saw Lord Brock that night, and then those two ministers sent for another minister,--another noble Lord, a man of great experience in Cabinets. These three discussed the matter together, and on the following day Lord Brock got up in the House, and made a strong speech in defence of his colleague, Mr. Finespun. To the end of the Session, at any rate, Mr. Finespun kept his position, and held the seals of the Exchequer while all the quidnuncs of the nation, shaking their heads, spoke of the wonderful power of Mr. Finespun, and declared that Lord Brock did not dare to face the Opposition without him.

The Duke saw Lord Brock that night, and another noble Lord, a man of great experience. These three discussed the matter, and on the following day Lord Brock got up in the House, and made a strong speech in defence of his colleague, Mr. Finespun. Till the end of the Session, at any rate, Mr. Finespun kept his position in the Exchequer.


In the meantime Mr. Palliser had returned to his wife, and told her of his resolution with reference to their tour abroad. "We may as well make up our minds to start at once," said he. "At any rate, there is nothing on my side to hinder us."

In the meantime Mr. Palliser had returned to his wife, and told her of his resolution to tour abroad. "We may as well start at once," said he. "There is nothing on my side to hinder us."


Mr. Tombe had gained nothing for the cause by his crafty silence. George Vavasor felt perfectly certain, as he walked out from the little street which runs at the back of Doctors' Commons, that the money which he had been using had come, in some shape, through the hands of John Grey. He did not care much to calculate whether the payments had been made from the personal funds of his rival, or whether that rival had been employed to dispense Alice's fortune. Under either view of the case his position was sufficiently bitter. The truth never for a moment occurred to him. He never dreamed that there might be a conspiracy in the matter, of which Alice was as ignorant as he himself had been. He never reflected that his uncle John, together with John, the lover, whom he so hated, might be the conspirators. To him it seemed to be certain that Alice and Mr. Grey were in league;--and if they were in league, what must he think of Alice, and of her engagement with himself!

Mr. Tombe had gained nothing by his crafty silence. George Vavasor felt perfectly certain, as he walked out, that the money had come through the hands of John Grey. He did not care to speculate whether the payments had been made from his rival's personal funds, or whether his rival had been dispensing Alice's fortune. In either case, his position was bitter enough.
The truth never for a moment occurred to him. He never dreamed that there might be a conspiracy in the matter, of which Alice was as ignorant as he himself. It seemed certain to him that Alice and Mr. Grey were in league; and if they were in league, what must he think of Alice, and of her engagement with himself!

Chapter 52: What Occurred in Suffolk Street, Pall Mall


There are men who rarely think well of women,--who hardly think well of any woman. They put their mothers and sisters into the background,--as though they belonged to some sex or race apart,--and then declare to themselves and to their friends that all women are false,--that no woman can be trusted unless her ugliness protect her; and that every woman may be attacked as fairly as may game in a cover, or deer on a mountain, What man does not know men who have so thought? I cannot say that such had been Vavasor's creed,--not entirely such. There had been periods of his life when he had believed implicitly in his cousin Alice;--but then there had been other moments in which he had ridiculed himself for his Quixotism in believing in any woman. And as he had grown older the moments of his Quixotism had become more rare. There would have been no such Quixotism left with him now, had not the various circumstances which I have attempted to describe, filled him, during the last twelve months, with a renewed desire to marry his cousin. Every man tries to believe in the honesty of his future wife; and, therefore, Vavasor had tried, and had in his way, believed. He had flattered himself, too, that Alice's heart had, in truth, been more prone to him than to that other suitor. Grey, as he thought, had been accepted by her cold prudence; but he thought, also, that she had found her prudence to be too cold, and had therefore returned where she had truly loved. Vavasor, though he did not love much himself, was willing enough to be the object of love.

There are men who rarely think well of any woman. They put their mothers and sisters into the background - as though they belonged to some race apart - and then declare that all women are false; that no woman can be trusted unless her ugliness protects her; and that every woman may be attacked as fairly as a deer on a mountain. There had been periods of Vavasor's life when he had believed implicitly in his cousin Alice; but then there had been other moments in which he had ridiculed himself for believing in any woman. As he had grown older the moments of his belief had become more rare.
Every man tries to believe in the honesty of his future wife; and, therefore, Vavasor had tried, and had in his way, believed. He had flattered himself, too, that Alice's heart had leaned towards him more than to that other suitor. He thought that she had found her feelings for Grey were too cold, and had therefore returned where she had truly loved. Vavasor, though he did not love much himself, was willing enough to be the object of love.


This idea of his, however, had been greatly shaken by Alice's treatment of himself personally; but still he had not, hitherto, believed that she was false to him. Now, what could he believe of her? What was there within the compass of such a one to believe? As he walked out into St. Paul's Churchyard he called her by every name which is most offensive to a woman's ears. He hated her at this moment with even a more bitter hatred than that which he felt towards John Grey. She must have deceived him with unparalleled hypocrisy, and lied to him and to his sister Kate as hardly any woman had ever lied before. Or could it be that Kate, also, was lying to him? If so, Kate also should be included in the punishment.

This idea had been greatly shaken by Alice's treatment of him; but still he had not thought that she was false to him. Now, what could he believe of her? As he walked out into St. Paul's Churchyard he called her by every name which is most offensive to a woman's ears. He hated her just then even more bitterly than John Grey. She must have deceived him with unparalleled hypocrisy, and have lied to him and to his sister Kate as hardly any woman had ever lied before. Or could it be that Kate, also, was lying to him? If so, Kate also should be included in the punishment.


But why should they have conspired to feed him with these moneys? There had been no deceit, at any rate, in reference to the pounds sterling which Scruby had already swallowed. They had been supplied, whatever had been the motives of the suppliers; and he had no doubt that more would be supplied if he would only keep himself quiet. He was still walking westward as he thought of this, down Ludgate Hill, on his direct line towards Suffolk Street; and he tried to persuade himself that it would be well that he should hide his wrath till after provision should have been made for this other election. They were his enemies,--Alice and Mr. Grey,--and why should he keep any terms with his enemies? It was still a trouble to him to think that he should have been in any way beholden to John Grey; but the terrible thing had been done, the evil had occurred. What would he gain by staying his hand now? Still, however, he walked on quickly along Fleet Street, and along the Strand, and was already crossing under the Picture Galleries towards Pall Mall East before he had definitely decided what steps he would take on this very day. Exactly at the corner of Suffolk Street he met John Grey.

But why should they have conspired to give him money? There had been no deceit about the pounds which Scruby had already swallowed. They had been supplied; and he had no doubt that more would be supplied if he kept quiet. As he walked, he tried to persuade himself that he should hide his anger till after payment had been made for the next election. It was still troubling to think that he should owe anything to John Grey; but what would he gain by stopping now?
He walked quickly along Fleet Street and the Strand, and was near Pall Mall East before he had decided what to do. At the corner of Suffolk Street he met John Grey.


"Mr. Grey," he said, stopping himself suddenly, "I was this moment going to call on you at your lodgings."

"Mr. Grey," he said, "I was this moment going to call on you at your lodgings."


"At my lodgings, were you? Shall I return with you?"


"If you please," said Vavasor, leading the way up Suffolk Street. There had been no other greeting than this between them. Mr. Grey himself, though a man very courteous in his general demeanour, would probably have passed Vavasor in the street with no more than the barest salutation. Situated as they were towards each other there could hardly be any show of friendship between them; but when Vavasor had spoken to him, he had dressed his face in that guise of civility which men always use who do not intend to be offensive;--but Vavasor dressed his as men dress theirs who do mean to be offensive; and Mr. Grey had thoroughly appreciated the dressing.

"If you please," said Vavasor, leading the way up Suffolk Street. There was no other greeting between them. Mr. Grey himself, though a courteous man generally, would probably have passed Vavasor in the street with no more than the barest greeting; but Vavasor had spoken to him with a civil appearance, as if he did not intend to be offensive.


"If you will allow me, I have the key," said Grey. Then they both entered the house, and Vavasor followed his host up-stairs. Mr. Grey, as he went up, felt almost angry with himself in having admitted his enemy into his lodgings. He was sure that no good could come of it, and remembered, when it was too late, that he might easily have saved himself from giving the invitation while he was still in the street. There they were, however, together in the sitting-room, and Grey had nothing to do but to listen. "Will you take a chair, Mr. Vavasor?" he said. "No," said Vavasor; "I will stand up." And he stood up, holding his hat behind his back with his left hand, with his right leg forward, and the thumb of his right hand in his waistcoat-pocket. He looked full into Grey's face, and Grey looked full into his; and as he looked the great cicatrice seemed to open itself and to become purple with fresh blood stains.

Mr. Grey unlocked the door of his house, and Vavasor followed him upstairs. Mr. Grey felt almost angry with himself for admitting his enemy. He was sure that no good could come of it. There they were, however, together in the sitting-room.
"Will you take a chair, Mr. Vavasor?" he said.
"No," said Vavasor; "I will stand."
And he stood up, holding his hat behind his back, and looked full into Grey's face; and the great scar seemed to open itself and become purple with fresh blood stains.


"I have come here from Mr. Tombe's office in the City," said Vavasor, "to ask you of what nature has been the interference which you have taken in my money matters?"

"I have come here from Mr. Tombe's office in the City," said Vavasor, "to ask you how you have been interfering in my money matters?"


This was a question which Mr. Grey could not answer very quickly. In the first place it was altogether unexpected; in the next place he did not know what Mr. Tombe had told, and what he had not told; and then, before he replied, he must think how much of the truth he was bound to tell in answer to a question so put to him.

Mr. Grey could not answer this unexpected question very quickly. He did not know what Mr. Tombe had said; and he needed to consider how much of the truth he was bound to tell in answer.


"Do you say that you have come from Mr. Tombe?" he asked.


"I think you heard me say so. I have come here direct from Mr. Tombe's chambers. He is your lawyer, I believe?"

"You heard me say so. I have come here direct from his chambers. He is your lawyer, I believe?"


"And I have come from him to ask you what interference you have lately taken in my money matters. When you have answered that, I shall have other questions to ask you."

"And I have come to ask you what interference you have lately taken in my money matters. When you have answered that, I shall have other questions to ask you."


"But, Mr. Vavasor, has it occurred to you that I may not be disposed to answer questions so asked?"


"It has not occurred to me to think that you will prevaricate. If there has been no such interference, I will ask your pardon, and go away; but if there has been such interference on your part, I have a right to demand that you shall explain to me its nature."

"It has not occurred to me that you will prevaricate. If there has been no such interference, I will ask your pardon, and go away; but if there has been such interference on your part, I have a right to demand that you shall explain it to me."


Grey had now made up his mind that it would be better that he should tell the whole story,--better not only for himself, but for all the Vavasors, including this angry man himself. The angry man evidently knew something, and it would be better that he should know the truth. "There has been such interference, Mr. Vavasor, if you choose to call it so. Money, to the extent of two thousand pounds, I think, has by my directions been paid to your credit by Mr. Tombe."

Grey had now made up his mind that it would be better for all concerned that he should tell the whole story. The angry man evidently knew something, and it would be better that he should know the truth.
"There has been such interference, Mr. Vavasor, if you choose to call it so. Money, to the extent of two thousand pounds, I think, has by my directions been paid to your credit by Mr. Tombe."


"Well," said Vavasor, taking his right hand away from his waistcoat, and tapping the round table with his fingers impatiently.

"Well," said Vavasor, tapping the table with his fingers impatiently.


"I hardly know how to explain all the circumstances under which this has been done."


"I dare say not; but, nevertheless, you must explain them."


Grey was a man tranquil in temperament, very little prone to quarrelling, with perhaps an exaggerated idea of the evil results of a row,--a man who would take infinite trouble to avoid any such scene as that which now seemed to be imminent; but he was a man whose courage was quite as high as that of his opponent. To bully or be bullied were alike contrary to his nature. It was clear enough now that Vavasor intended to bully him, and he made up his mind at once that if the quarrel were forced upon him it should find him ready to take his own part. "My difficulty in explaining it comes from consideration for you," he said.

Grey was a tranquil man, who would take trouble to avoid a quarrel; but his courage was quite as high as his opponent's. It was clear that Vavasor intended to bully him, and he made up his mind at once that he was ready for a quarrel.
"My difficulty in explaining it comes from consideration for you," he said.


"Then I beg that your difficulty will cease, and that you will have no consideration for me. We are so circumstanced towards each other that any consideration must be humbug and nonsense. At any rate, I intend to have none for you. Now, let me know why you have meddled with my matters."

"Then I beg you to have no consideration for me. I intend to have no consideration for you. Now, let me know why you have meddled."


"I think I might, perhaps, better refer you to your uncle."

"I might, perhaps, better refer you to your uncle."


"No, sir; Mr. Tombe is not my uncle's lawyer. My uncle never heard his name, unless he heard of it from you."

"No, sir; Mr. Tombe is not my uncle's lawyer."


"But it was by agreement with your uncle that I commissioned Mr. Tombe to raise for you the money you were desirous of borrowing from your cousin. We thought it better that her fortune should not be for the moment disturbed."

"But it was by agreement with your uncle that I commissioned Mr. Tombe to raise the money you wished to borrow from your cousin. We thought it better that her fortune should not be for the moment disturbed."


"But what had you to do with it? Why should you have done it? In the first place, I don't believe your story; it is altogether improbable. But why should he come to you of all men to raise money on his daughter's behalf?"

"But what had you to do with it? Why should you have done it? In the first place, I don't believe it; it is altogether improbable. But why should he come to you of all men to raise money on his daughter's behalf?"


"Unless you can behave yourself with more discretion, Mr. Vavasor, you must leave the room," said Mr. Grey. Then, as Vavasor simply sneered at him, but spoke nothing, he went on. "It was I who suggested to your uncle that this arrangement should be made. I did not wish to see Miss Vavasor's fortune squandered."

"Unless you can behave yourself with more discretion, Mr. Vavasor, you must leave the room," said Mr. Grey. Then, as Vavasor simply sneered at him, but said nothing, he went on. "It was I who suggested to your uncle that this arrangement should be made. I did not wish to see Miss Vavasor's fortune squandered."


"And what was her fortune to you, sir? Are you aware that she is engaged to me as my wife? I ask you, sir, whether you are aware that Miss Vavasor is to be my wife?"

"And what was her fortune to you, sir? Are you aware that she is engaged to me as my wife?"


"I must altogether decline to discuss with you Miss Vavasor's present or future position."

"I decline to discuss with you Miss Vavasor's present or future position."


"By heavens, then, you shall hear me discuss it! She was engaged to you, and she has given you your dismissal. If you had understood anything of the conduct which is usual among gentlemen, or if you had had any particle of pride in you, sir, you would have left her and never mentioned her name again. I now find you meddling with her money matters, so as to get a hold upon her fortune."

"By heavens, then, you shall hear me discuss it! She was engaged to you, and she has given you your dismissal. If you had understood anything of the conduct which is usual among gentlemen, or if you had had any particle of pride, sir, you would have left her and never mentioned her name again. I now find you meddling with her money matters, so as to get a hold upon her fortune."


"Yes, sir, you have. You do not advance two thousand pounds without knowing that you have security. She has rejected you; and in order that you may be revenged, or that you may have some further hold upon her,--that she may be in some sort within your power, you have contrived this rascally pettifogging way of obtaining power over her income. The money shall be repaid at once, with any interest that can be due; and if I find you interfering again, I will expose you."

"Yes, sir, you have. You do not advance two thousand pounds without knowing that you have security. She has rejected you; and in order that you may be revenged, or that you may have some further hold upon her, you have contrived this rascally pettifogging way of obtaining power over her income. The money shall be repaid at once; and if I find you interfering again, I will expose you."


"Mr. Vavasor," said Grey very slowly, in a low tone of voice, but with something in his eye which would have told any bystander that he was much in earnest, "you have used words in your anger which I cannot allow to pass. You must recall them."

"Mr. Vavasor," said Grey very slowly, in a low voice, but very much in earnest, "you have used words in your anger which I cannot allow to pass. You must recall them."


"What were the words? I said that you were a pettifogging rascal. I now repeat them." As he spoke he put on his hat, so as to leave both his hands ready for action if action should be required.

"What were the words? I said that you were a pettifogging rascal. I now repeat that." As he spoke he put on his hat, so as to leave both his hands ready for action if required.


Grey was much the larger man and much the stronger. It may be doubted whether he knew himself the extent of his own strength, but such as it was he resolved that he must now use it. "There is no help for it," he said, as he also prepared for action. The first thing he did was to open the door, and as he did so he became conscious that his mouth was full of blood from a sharp blow upon his face. Vavasor had struck him with his fist, and had cut his lip against his teeth. Then there came a scramble, and Grey was soon aware that he had his opponent in his hands. I doubt whether he had attempted to strike a blow, or whether he had so much as clenched his fist. Vavasor had struck him repeatedly, but the blows had fallen on his body or his head, and he was unconscious of them. He had but one object now in his mind, and that object was the kicking his assailant down the stairs. Then came a scramble, as I have said, and Grey had a hold of the smaller man by the nape of his neck. So holding him he forced him back through the door on to the landing, and there succeeded in pushing him down the first flight of steps. Grey kicked at him as he went, but the kick was impotent. He had, however, been so far successful that he had thrust his enemy out of the room, and had the satisfaction of seeing him sprawling on the landing-place.

Grey was much the larger and the stronger man. It may be doubted whether he knew the extent of his own strength, but he resolved that he must now use it.
"There is no help for it," he said, as he opened the door. As he did so he became conscious that his mouth was full of blood from a sharp blow upon his face. Vavasor had struck him with his fist.
Then there came a scramble, and Grey was soon aware that he had his opponent in his hands. I doubt whether he had attempted to strike a blow. Vavasor had struck him repeatedly, but he was unconscious of the blows that had fallen on him. He had only one object now in his mind, and that object was to kick Vavasor down the stairs. Now he had a hold of the smaller man by the nape of his neck. He forced him through the door, and succeeded in pushing him down the first flight of steps. He had the satisfaction of seeing him sprawling on the landing.


Vavasor, when he raised himself, prepared to make another rush at the room, but before he could do so a man from below, hearing the noise, had come upon him and interrupted him. "Mr. Jones," said Grey, speaking from above, "if that gentleman does not leave the house, I must get you to search for a policeman."

Vavasor, when he raised himself, prepared to make another rush at the room, but before he could do so a man from below, hearing the noise, came out and interrupted him.
"Mr. Jones," said Grey from above, "if that gentleman does not leave the house, I must get you to search for a policeman."


Vavasor, though the lodging-house man had hold of the collar of his coat, made no attempt to turn upon his new enemy. When two dogs are fighting, any bystander may attempt to separate them with impunity. The brutes are so anxious to tear each other that they have no energies left for other purposes. It never occurs to them to turn their teeth upon newcomers in the quarrel. So it was with George Vavasor. Jones was sufficient to prevent his further attack upon the foe up-stairs, and therefore he had no alternative but to relinquish the fight.

Vavasor, though the lodging-house man had hold of his collar of his coat, made no attempt to turn upon him. All his energies were bent on John Grey.


"What's it all about, sir?" said Jones, who kept a tailor's establishment, and, as a tailor, was something of a fighting man himself. Of all tradesmen in London the tailors are, no doubt, the most combative,--as might be expected from the necessity which lies upon them of living down the general bad character in this respect which the world has wrongly given them. "What's it all about, sir?" said Jones, still holding Vavasor by his coat.

"What's it all about, sir?" said Jones, who was a tailor, and something of a fighting man himself.


"That man has ill-used me, and I've punished him; that's all."

"That man has ill-used me, and I've punished him; that's all," said Vavasor.


"I don't know much about punishing," said the tailor. "It seems to me he pitched you down pretty clean out of the room above. I think the best thing you can do now is to walk yourself off."


It was the only thing that Vavasor could do, and he did walk himself off. He walked himself off, and went home to his own lodgings in Cecil Street, that he might smooth his feathers after the late encounter before he went down to Westminster to take his seat in the House of Commons. I do not think that he was comfortable when he got there, or that he felt himself very well able to fight another battle that night on behalf of the River Bank. He had not been hurt, but he had been worsted. Grey had probably received more personal damage than had fallen to his share; but Grey had succeeded in expelling him from the room, and he knew that he had been found prostrate on the landing-place when the tailor first saw him.

It was the only thing that Vavasor could do, and he did walk himself off. He went home to his lodgings in Cecil Street, to smooth his feathers after the encounter before he went down to Westminster to take his seat in the House of Commons. I do not think that he was comfortable when he got there, or that he felt himself very well able to fight another battle that night on behalf of the River Bank. He had not been hurt, but he had been worsted. He had probably hurt Grey; but Grey had succeeded in throwing him out.


But he might probably have got over the annoyance of this feeling had he not been overwhelmed by a consciousness that everything was going badly with him. He was already beginning to hate his seat in Parliament. What good had it done for him, or was it likely to do for him? He found himself to be associated there with Mr. Bott, and a few others of the same class,--men whom he despised; and even they did not admit him among them without a certain show of superiority on their part. Who has not ascertained by his own experience the different lights through which the same events may be seen, according to the success, or want of success, which pervades the atmosphere at the moment? At the present time everything was unsuccessful with George Vavasor; and though he told himself, almost from hour to hour, that he would go on with the thing which he had begun,--that he would persevere in Parliament till he had obtained a hearing there and created for himself success, he could not himself believe in the promises which he had made to himself. He had looked forward to his entrance into that Chamber as the hour of his triumph; but he had entered it with Mr. Bott, and there had been no triumph to him in doing so. He had sworn to himself that when there he would find men to hear him. Hitherto, indeed, he could not accuse himself of having missed his opportunities; his election had been so recent that he could hardly yet have made the attempt. But he had been there long enough to learn to fancy that there was no glory in attempting. This art of speaking in Parliament, which had appeared to him to be so grand, seemed already to be a humdrum, homely, dull affair. No one seemed to listen much to what was said. To such as himself,--Members without an acquired name,--men did not seem to listen at all. Mr. Palliser had once, in his hearing, spoken for two hours together, and all the House had treated his speech with respect,--had declared that it was useful, solid, conscientious, and what not; but more than half the House had been asleep more than half the time that he was on his legs. Vavasor had not as yet commenced his career as an orator; but night after night, as he sat there, the chance of commencing it with brilliance seemed to be further from him, and still further. Two thousand pounds of his own money, and two thousand more of Alice's money,--or of Mr. Grey's,--he had already spent to make his way into that assembly. He must spend, at any rate, two thousand more if he intended that his career should be prolonged beyond a three months' sitting;--and how was he to get this further sum after what had taken place to-day?

He might have got over the annoyance of this feeling had he not been overwhelmed by a consciousness that everything was going badly with him. He was already beginning to hate his seat in Parliament. What good had it done for him? He found himself associated with Mr. Bott, and others of the same class - men whom he despised; and even they did not admit him without a show of superiority. Though he told himself that he would go on with the thing which he had begun - that he would persevere in Parliament till he had become successful - he could not believe in the promises which he had made to himself.
He had looked forward to his entrance into that Chamber as the hour of his triumph; but he had entered it with Mr. Bott, and there had been no triumph in that. He had had no time to speak in Parliament yet; but he had been there long enough to learn to fancy that there was no glory in attempting. This art of speaking in Parliament, which had appeared to him to be so grand, seemed already to be a humdrum, dull affair. No one seemed to listen much to what was said. Mr. Palliser had once spoken for two hours together, and all the House had treated his speech with respect - had declared that it was useful, solid, conscientious, and what not; but more than half the House had been asleep during it.
Vavasor's chance of brilliance seemed to be further from him, and still further. He had already spent two thousand pounds of his own money, and two thousand more of Alice's - or Mr. Grey's. He must spend two thousand more to prolong his career; and how was he to get that after what had taken place today?


He would get it. That was his resolve as he walked in by the apple-woman's stall, under the shadow of the great policeman, and between the two august lamps. He would get it;--as long as Alice had a pound over which he could obtain mastery by any act or violence within his compass. He would get it; even though it should come through the hands of John Grey and Mr. Tombe. He would get it; though in doing so he might destroy his cousin Alice and ruin his sister Kate. He had gone too far to stick at any scruples. Had he not often declared how great had been that murderer who had been able to divest himself of all such scruples,--who had scoured his bosom free from all fears of the hereafter, and, as regarded the present, had dared to trust for everything to success? He would go to Alice and demand the money from her with threats, and with that violence in his eyes which he knew so well how to assume. He believed that when he so demanded it, the money would be forthcoming so as to satisfy, at any rate, his present emergencies.

He would get it. That was his resolve as he walked into Westminster between the two august lamps. He would get it; as long as Alice had a pound, he would get it, even if it came through John Grey's hands - and even if it might destroy his cousin Alice and ruin his sister Kate. He had gone too far to stick at any scruples. He would go to Alice and demand the money from her with threats, and with that violence in his eyes which he knew so well how to assume.


That wretched old man in Westmoreland! If he would but die, there might yet be a hope remaining of permanent success! Even though the estate might be entailed so as to give him no more than a life-interest, still money might be raised on it. His life-interest in it would be worth ten or twelve years' purchase. He had an idea that his grandfather had not as yet made any such will when he left the place in Westmoreland. What a boon it would be if death could be made to overtake the old man before he did so! On this very night he walked about the lobbies of the House, thinking of all this. He went by himself from room to room, roaming along passages, sitting now for ten minutes in the gallery, and then again for a short space in the body of the House,--till he would get up and wander again out into the lobby, impatient of the neighbourhood of Mr. Bott. Certainly just at this time he felt no desire to bring before the House the subject of the River Embankment.

That wretched old man in Westmorland! If only he would die! He walked about the lobbies of the House, thinking of all this as he went from room to room, sitting now for ten minutes in the gallery, and then wandering again out into the lobby.


Nor was Mr. Grey much happier when he was left alone, than was his assailant. To give Vavasor his due, the memory of the affray itself did not long trouble him much. The success between the combatants had been nearly equal, and he had, at any rate, spoken his mind freely. His misery had come from other sources. But the reflection that he had been concerned in a row was in itself enough to make John Grey wretched for the time. Such a misfortune had never hitherto befallen him. In all his dealings with men words had been sufficient, and generally words of courtesy had sufficed. To have been personally engaged in a fighting scramble with such a man as George Vavasor was to him terrible. When ordering that his money might be expended with the possible object of saving Alice from her cousin, he had never felt a moment's regret; he had never thought that he was doing more than circumstances fairly demanded of him. But now he was almost driven to utter reproach. "Oh, Alice! that this thing should have come upon me through thy fault!"

Nor was Mr. Grey much happier. The memory of the fight itself did not trouble Vavasor much; but John Grey was made wretched by reflecting on it. He had never been involved in physical violence before. When ordering that his money might be spent to save Alice from her cousin, he had never felt a moment's regret; but now he was almost driven to reproach.
"Oh, Alice! that this should have come upon me through your fault!"


When Vavasor was led away down stairs by the tailor, and Grey found that no more actual fighting would be required of him, he retired into his bedroom, that he might wash his mouth and free himself from the stains of the combat. He had heard the front door closed, and knew that the miscreant was gone,--the miscreant who had disturbed his quiet. Then he began to think what was the accusation with which Vavasor had charged him. He had been told that he had advanced money on behalf of Alice, in order that he might obtain some power over Alice's fortune, and thus revenge himself upon Alice for her treatment of him. Nothing could be more damnably false than this accusation. Of that he was well aware. But were not the circumstances of a nature to make it appear that the accusation was true? Security for the money advanced by him, of course, he had none;--of course he had desired none;--of course the money had been given out of his own pocket with the sole object of saving Alice, if that might be possible; but of all those who might hear of this affair, how many would know or even guess the truth?

Once Vavasor had gone, Grey retired into his bedroom to wash his face. Then he began to think about Vavasor's accusation, that he had advanced money on Alice's behalf in order to obtain some power over her, and revenge himself for her treatment of him. Nothing could be more damnably false than this accusation. But might it not appear to be true? If people heard of this affair, how many would guess the truth?


While he was in this wretched state of mind, washing his mouth, and disturbing his spirit, Mr. Jones, his landlord, came up to him. Mr. Jones had known him for some years, and entertained a most profound respect for his character. A rather sporting man than otherwise was Mr. Jones. His father had been a tradesman at Cambridge, and in this way Jones had become known to Mr. Grey. But though given to sport, by which he meant modern prize-fighting and the Epsom course on the Derby day, Mr. Jones was a man who dearly loved respectable customers and respectable lodgers. Mr. Grey, with his property at Nethercoats, and his august manners, and his reputation at Cambridge, was a most respectable lodger, and Mr. Jones could hardly understand how any one could presume to raise his hand against such a man.

While he was in this wretched state of mind, Mr. Jones, his landlord, came up to him. Mr. Jones had known him for some years, and had a most profound respect for him.


"Dear, dear, sir--this is a terrible affair!" he said, as he made his way into the room.

"Dear, dear, sir, this is a terrible affair!" he said, as he entered the room.


"It was very disagreeable, certainly," said Grey.


"Was the gentleman known to you?" asked the tailor.


"Well, yes. I should not have pushed him down stairs had he not quarrelled with me."

"Well, yes. I should not have pushed him downstairs otherwise."


"We can have the police after him if you wish it, sir?"


"Or we might manage to polish him off in any other way, you know."


It was some time before Mr. Grey could get rid of the tailor, but he did so at last without having told any part of the story to that warlike, worthy, and very anxious individual.

It was some time before Mr. Grey could get rid of the tailor, but he did so without telling any part of the story to that worthy and very anxious man.


Early in April, the Easter recess being all over, Lady Monk gave a grand party in London. Lady Monk's town house was in Gloucester Square. It was a large mansion, and Lady Monk's parties in London were known to be very great affairs. She usually gave two or three in the season, and spent a large portion of her time and energy in so arranging matters that her parties should be successful. As this was her special line in life, a failure would have been very distressing to her;--and we may also say very disgraceful, taking into consideration, as we should do in forming our judgement on the subject, the very large sums of Sir Cosmo's money which she spent in this way. But she seldom did fail. She knew how to select her days, so as not to fall foul of other events. It seldom happened that people could not come to her because of a division which occupied all the Members of Parliament, or that they were drawn away by the superior magnitude of some other attraction in the world of fashion. This giving of parties was her business, and she had learned it thoroughly. She worked at it harder than most men work at their trades, and let us hope that the profits were consolatory.

Early in April, Lady Monk gave a grand party in London, at her large town house in Gloucester Square. Lady Monk usually gave two or three such parties in the season, and spent much time and energy ensuring that they would be successful. And she seldom failed.

Chapter 48: Preparations for Lady Monk's Party


It was generally acknowledged to be the proper thing to go to Lady Monk's parties. There were certain people who were asked, and who went as a matter of course,--people who were by no means on intimate terms with Lady Monk, or with Sir Cosmo; but they were people to have whom was the proper thing, and they were people who understood that to go to Lady Monk's was the proper thing for them. The Duchess of St. Bungay was always there, though she hated Lady Monk, and Lady Monk always abused her; but a card was sent to the Duchess in the same way as the Lord Mayor invites a Cabinet Minister to dinner, even though the one man might believe the other to be a thief. And Mrs. Conway Sparkes was generally there; she went everywhere. Lady Monk did not at all know why Mrs. Conway Sparkes was so favoured by the world; but there was the fact, and she bowed to it. Then there were another set, the members of which were or were not invited, according to circumstances, at the time; and these were the people who were probably the most legitimate recipients of Lady Monk's hospitality. Old family friends of her husband were among the number. Let the Tuftons come in April, and perhaps again in May; then they will not feel their exclusion from that seventh heaven of glory,--the great culminating crush in July. Scores of young ladies who really loved parties belonged to this set. The mothers and aunts knew Lady Monk's sisters and cousins. They accepted so much of Lady Monk's good things as she vouchsafed them, and were thankful. Then there was another lot, which generally became, especially on that great July occasion, the most numerous of the three. It comprised all those who made strong interest to obtain admittance within her ladyship's house,--who struggled and fought almost with tooth and nail to get invitations. Against these people Lady Monk carried on an internecine war. Had she not done so she would have been swamped by them, and her success would have been at an end; but yet she never dreamed of shutting her doors against them altogether, or of saying boldly that none such should hamper her staircases. She knew that she must yield, but her effort was made to yield to as few as might be possible. When she was first told by her factotum in these operations that Mr. Bott wanted to come, she positively declined to have him. When it was afterwards intimated to her that the Duchess of St. Bungay had made a point of it, she sneered at the Duchess, and did not even then yield. But when at last it was brought home to her understanding that Mr. Palliser wished it, and that Mr. Palliser probably would not come himself unless his wishes were gratified, she gave way. She was especially anxious that Lady Glencora should come to her gathering, and she knew that Lady Glencora could not be had without Mr. Palliser.

It was generally acknowledged to be the proper thing to go to Lady Monk's parties. There were certain people who went as a matter of course - people who were by no means close friends with Lady Monk, or with Sir Cosmo, but whom it was proper to invite. The Duchess of St. Bungay was always there, though she hated Lady Monk; and Mrs. Conway Sparkes was generally there, although Lady Monk did not know why Mrs. Conway Sparkes was so favoured by the world; but so the fact was, and she bowed to it.
Then there were another set, who were invited only when it suited. Among these were old family friends of her husband, and scores of young ladies whose mothers and aunts knew Lady Monk's sisters and cousins. They accepted as much of Lady Monk's good things as she offered them, and were thankful.
Then there was another lot again, which was the most numerous of the three. It comprised all those who fought almost tooth and nail to get invitations. If Lady Monk had admitted them all, she would have been swamped; but she did not shut her doors against them altogether. Rather, she yielded to as few as possible.
When she was first told that Mr. Bott wanted to come, she positively refused to have him. When it was hinted that the Duchess of St. Bungay had requested it, she sneered at the Duchess, and did not yield. But when she learnt that Mr. Palliser wished it, and that Mr. Palliser probably would not come himself otherwise, she gave way. She was especially anxious that Lady Glencora should come to her gathering, and Lady Glencora could not be had without Mr. Palliser.


It was very much desired by her that Lady Glencora should be there. "Burgo," said she to her nephew, one morning, "look here." Burgo was at the time staying with his aunt, in Gloucester Square, much to the annoyance of Sir Cosmo, who had become heartily tired of his nephew. The aunt and the nephew had been closeted together more than once lately, and perhaps they understood each other better now than they had done down at Monkshade. The aunt had handed a little note to Burgo, which he read and then threw back to her. "You see that she is not afraid of coming," said Lady Monk.

"Burgo," said she to her nephew one morning, "look here." Burgo was staying with her in Gloucester Square, much to the annoyance of Sir Cosmo, who was heartily tired of his nephew. The aunt and the nephew had been closeted together often lately. Now she handed a little note to Burgo, which he read and threw back to her.
"You see that she is not afraid of coming," said Lady Monk.


"I suppose she doesn't think much about it," said Burgo.

"I suppose she doesn't think about it much," said Burgo.


"If that's what you really believe, you'd better give it up. Nothing on earth would justify such a step on your part except a thorough conviction that she is attached to you."

"If that's what you really believe, you'd better give it up. Nothing would justify such a step on your part except a conviction that she is attached to you."


Burgo looked at the fireplace, almost savagely, and his aunt looked at him very keenly. "Well," she said, "if there's to be an end of it, let there be an end of it."


"I think I'd better hang myself," he said.


"Burgo, I will not have you here if you talk to me in that way. I am trying to help you once again; but if you look like that, and talk like that, I will give it up."

"Burgo, I will not have you here if you talk that way. I am trying to help you; but if you look like that, and talk like that, I will give it up."


"Are you becoming cowardly at last? With all your faults I never expected that of you."


"No; I am not a coward. I'd go out and fight him at two paces' distance with the greatest pleasure in the world."

"I am not a coward. I'd go out and fight him with the greatest pleasure in the world."


"You know that's nonsense, Burgo. It's downright braggadocio. Men do not fight now; nor at any time would a man be called upon to fight, because you simply wanted to take his wife from him. If you had done it, indeed!"


"How am I to do it? I'd do it to-morrow if it depended on me. No one can say that I'm afraid of anybody or of anything."

"I'd take her tomorrow if I could. No one can say that I'm afraid.


"I suppose something in the matter depends on her?"


"I believe she loves me,--if you mean that?"