"But considering that in all our conversations you paraded your three or four objections with obstinate vehemence, and that you wrecked the late Government on the question," she ejaculated, scarcely knowing what to think, and all her joy in his conversion swallowed up in the terrible doubt of how the world would take such apparently shameless inconsistency. Would it not have been better if he had not budged from his unsound convictions? Yet what but this right-about face had she been hoping and praying for all along?

"I know, I know," he interrupted hastily. "But listen before you condemn me. No, I was not so inimical as you thought to the objects of your association. If I was so alive to the objections to it, it was because I dreaded that I was too alive to the arguments in favour of it. Some of my dearest friends were staunch advocates of it-you know the cynical moralists say that the wish to believe is the father to the belief-the influence is subtle and often

unsuspected. I believed in the justice of your cause; but my knowledge of this-this cynical analysis-led me into the opposite extreme. I was misled by the fear of being misled. But since I last saw you I have exorcised the phantom fear and looked things straight in the face."

He made the explanation awkwardly, almost blunderingly; but this very awkwardness, suggestive as it was of infinitely delicate reticences, heightened the emotion of the listener, affected almost to tears by the confession itself. What a sudden light was flashed over their past interviews and over his life! The tragedy of a man's soul was revealed by these few reluctant sentences, its pathos softened only by the thought that poetic justice was to be dealt out at last. Little wonder that his health had threatened to give way. At this moment, Lady Gwendolen felt immeasurably inferior to her lover. Surely love should have cleared her vision, if she lacked kindred nobility of spirit to read the secrets of his soul. How she had made him suffer by making herself, however indirectly, a reward for the profession of her miserable doctrines! Ought she not to have divined that to a man of his Quixotic temperament, of his quintessential conscientiousness, the prospect of gain was almost enough to turn the scale on the other side? How she had misunderstood him! Yet no word of reproach had passed his lips. Intense feeling kept her silent. Unconscious of her remorseful condition, and, perhaps, mistaking her silence for incredulity, Floppington went on : "There is another motive which swayed me—a motive which I call right, but which the world may, for aught I know, call wrong. Even at the risk of crushing individual measures, I felt how unsafe it was to allow the reins of power to remain in the hands of the Radicals; men whose reckless driving will sooner or later destroy religion, and all that you and I hold sacred. They will scoff at me as inconsistent, not perceiving the larger consistency of my course. But I must bear my cross," he said with infinite sadness. A sublime light shone in his eyes; the spiritual fire that illumines the face of a martyr.

"Let the world think what it will," she cried, ineffably touched,

her whole spirit vibrating under the penetrating charm of his mellow accents. "There is one at least who would stake her life on your honour."

The Premier gave her a smile of gratitude. He was undoubtedly glad to have retained her sympathy, especially as she had appeared so shocked at his inconsistency.

"I am afraid you are very rash," he said with cheery goodhumour, as if ashamed of his display of emotion. "You mustn't risk your life, you know, before your society has to wind itself up on account of having nothing more to make capital of."

A faint smile crossed her face, and then she trembled with an overpowering influx of almost delirious joy.

"And you will add the clause to the Bill?" she said eagerly, her eyes bright with happiness, yet humid with unshed tears brimming up from a full heart beating with other and sweeter than political hopes. Then, half-sadly she added: "But what will Lord Bardolph say? Will it not be a triumph for him? For he will think you have yielded to his threats."

"If he thinks that, he will discover his mistake very soon," replied the Premier evasively. "If his Lordship doesn't know he's the fly on the wheel, let him keep his place unmoved till the next turn. Like Charles the First, he will be crushed by the Revolution."

A merry laugh rippled from Lady Gwendolen's lips; but it was not so much a tribute to the Premier's grotesque way of putting things as an outlet for the waves of delight that surged within her brain.

The Premier laughed too; the humorous aspect of the whole affair appealed much more strongly to him than to her. But his face grew grave as he said: "We shall have a hard fight. I shall have many prejudices arrayed against me. My own men will desert me. May I count upon your influence? You were no doubt brought into communication with the leading Radicals, without whose support I could not hope to do anything. Fate has created in you a valuable intermediary between the rival camps, and I should like to commence negotiations with the enemy as soon as possible. You will smooth my path, will you not?

Always. You know I am yours entirely," impulsively burst forth Lady Gwendolen, stretching out both her hands and taking hold of his.

How beautiful and noble she looked as she stood there in the pale light, her face radiant with happiness and aglow with enthusiasm. Of what lofty deeds would not a man be capable, inspired by her! As the Premier gazed at her and felt the soft warm clasp of her hands, he was thrilled to the core by a strange emotion, in which something of vague and indefinable sweetness was blent with an almost solemn perception of the beauty of high endeavour: as if the sweet seriousness of Gwendolen's face had spiritualised itself in his mind. He bowed reverently and kissed her hand.

At that moment a cloud passed over the face of the moon, and hid the Premier's earnest expression from the view of the mocking Bacchus.

Book E.

CHAPTER I.

MRS. DAWE ON POLITICS AND MATRIMONY.

ACK DAWE, as the reader already knows, occupied the humble yet occasionally lofty position of a house-and-sign painter. His earnings were sufficiently large to prevent him crossing the boundaryline between Ultra-Radicalism and Socialism, even if he had not been the sole heir of an ancient demesne. His professional reputation was unsullied by a single blotch of paint in the wrong place, and it was achieved after a long and arduous preparation in youth. A touch of artistic instinct lifted his lions and cows far above the vulgar herd. His griffins and unicorns seemed to have been photographed from life, and their air of vitality was such as to vindicate their originals' claims to reality, and to the right of sending representatives to the International Assembly at the Zoo. His letters over shop-windows were remarkable for bold experiment in perspective. His native road contained many illustrations of his genius, notably a blue beer-barrel, which occupied the centre of a white-painted wall. The magnificent scale of the work called forth all his powers. Of him, as of Shakespeare, no man can say that he had a great opportunity without rising to the height of it. An eminent art critic, to whom it was pointed out as an early work of Turner's, said of it ("Modern Sign-Painters," Vol. VI., pp. 35-6), "It would be impossible to overpraise the wholly admirable chiaroscuro, the subtle tinting, exquisite in its delicate gradations to finer and finer shades of blue, caught from his accurate observation of the Maiden Lane skies, the vigorous and ideally-realistic rendering of the bunghole, and the highly imaginative details which make of the tap a vision of sensuous beauty surcharged with high poetic meaning. In reality, and in esteem, this blue beer-barrel is the greatest spiritual painting of our time." Happy the artist who has himself for Hanging Committee, whose gallery is the town, who has the world for spectator!

Jack Dawe received two orders by the first post on the Monday morning which followed his sleepless night. His mother brought

them in, treading gingerly in immense list slippers (a size too small), for Jack had not risen with the newsboy, the London lark. She found him with his face turned to the wall, and with his eyes tightly closed. Depositing the post-cards, together with the Daily News, on the table, she left the room, murmuring, "Poor boy, he sha'n't go to work, not if they stand on their 'eads for 'im, 'cos it's better to knock up your work for a day than yourself and your work for a week. I'm sorry I blowed 'im up yesterday for neglecting his business. Yet he agreed with me that politics ain't for those as has got to get a honest living. P'r'aps when he's better I shall be able to make him spoon instead of spout."

No sooner was she gone than Jack extended a feverish hand and clutched the post-cards, for anything was welcome to him after the intense mental conflict of the night, which had ended in a dull quiescence induced by sheer weariness. One demanded his immediate presence in Poplar to paint some doors and shutters green, with the intimation that the job would not be saved for him later than ten. The other was from an old friend in the Whitechapel Road-a publican-who informed him that, in a recent storm, his signboard had been blown down and smashed to pieces, in common with the noble lion that he had been so pleased with; he therefore requested the artist to portray another at his convenience, any time during the week.

After all," mused Jack, "painting doors green is better than making Mountchapel's face of that colour with envy, and painting lions is better than living in a den of wild beasts."

And lo, he found himself suddenly chuckling, much to his own surprise, and he blushed as he saw the field of unsuspected motive laid bare in a momentary flash.

"He'll meet his match!" he cried, with a glee he could not repress. "He'll meet his match, and at his own weapons. 'Tis Greek against Greek."

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And in a moment the heavy clouds of depression rolled away, and a feverish gaiety filled his soul. “Fool that I was!" he cried, "to spend the night in sighs, when I should rejoice! For three months the calm realms of Thought and Poetry once more open to me; action unnecessary, save of a novel and refreshing kind; the study of Humanity possible, and perhaps its spiritualisation. Euge, amice, euge, thou hast found the Elixir of Life, thou hast got back thy youth! This, this is the land of the Lotophagi, who eat flowers as food!" And he was about to jump out of bed, light-hearted, and filled with mercurial vivacity, when the entrance of Mrs. Dawe caused him to postpone his intention.

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Good gracious me!" she said, in much alarm, occasioned by her overhearing the last two sentences. "The boy is gone mad, a-talkin' of witchcraft and the devil! And what flowers do we eat except cauliflowers?"

"Reassure yourself; I am perfectly well," he said gaily.

"It don't seem like it," she said dubiously. "There's been something queer about you ever since yesterday mornin'; I can't

quite make out what it is. You don't look quite right about the eyes, and your face is paler than it's been for years. 'Ave you been whitewashing yourself?"

He smiled faintly. "I am afraid many people would consider that impossible."

"Well, you ain't yourself," she continued, with some asperity, "and I'm sure it's all over goin' to talk politics. I wish you'd never 'ad nothing to do with 'em."

The words escaped Mrs. Dawe involuntarily, and she paused half-affrighted when she had uttered them. It was true her mild expostulation of the day before had escaped the stern filial reproof which she felt her audacity deserved; but she could not expect such luck twice. Judge, then, of her surprise when her son exclaimed earnestly, "So do I!" She uttered a cry of joy. Then she remembered it must be his physical weakness that modified his natural imperiousness. Her mood softened, the acridity of her tones died away, but she was not one to lose an opportunity. "Ah, Jack, I'm glad you've got sense enough to see there's some left in your poor old mother. If you 'adn't been so 'eadstrong you'd been a 'appier man, and somebody else 'ud been a 'appier woman.' The painter's eyes gleamed with a sad, tender light.

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As your late father said," continued Mrs. Dawe, perceiving the impression she had wrought : "A man with a weak 'ead can't afford to be 'eadstrong,' and your 'ead was allus too weak for politics. Not as I wishes to insinuate that you don't take arter me. You're clever enough in your own way, but I've 'eard that to get on in that line of business you must be too clever by 'arf. And when politics spiles your appetite, as well as wastes your time, it's 'igh time to give it up. It don't make no difference to me, whether the Liberals or the Conservatives is a-ruinin' the country, and I don't see what it's got to do with you. Floppy's a rascal, and trade's as bad as 'imself, but I don't see that sore throats is likely to benefit any business except doctors!"

"Well, you will be pleased to hear that I intend taking a long rest from politics," he observed kindly.

"Fortune smiles indeed upon my determination!" he reflected. "Tis an unexpected happiness to be able to brighten her sordid existence by doing nothing to effect that object. The saint malgré lui!" But had he foreseen the long, half-delirious hug that awaited him, accompanied as it was by inarticulate sounds of delight, he would not have forgotten that every pleasure has its price.

"That's my dear old Jack!" she cried, when she had exhausted herself and him. "It reminds me of the good old times when I used to spank you. Ah, you was a wicked boy sometimes, Jack, even afore you took to politics. D'ye remember when you stole a baked potato as took all the skin off your hand when you was taking the skin off of it, and your father said you was punished nat❜rally, as Roosso recommended; but I said that the nat❜ral punishment was not in the hands but only in that part of the body created