s. And he went on with: "Ay, invisible," and his
arm chopping, "but an Idol! an Idol!"--I was to think of "nought but
Laws." He admitted there might be one above the Laws. "To realize him is
to fry the brains in their pan," says he, and struck his forehead--a
slap: and off he walked down the garden, with his hands at his
coat-tails. I venture to say it may be taken for a proof of incipient
insanity to care to hear such a fellow twice. And Beauchamp holds him up
for a sage and a prophet!'

'He is a very dangerous dog,' said Colonel Halkett.

'The best of it is--and I take this for the strongest possible proof that
Beauchamp is mad--Shrapnel stands for an advocate of morality against
him. I'll speak of it . . . .'

Mr. Tuckham nodded to the colonel, who said: 'Speak out. My daughter has
been educated for a woman of the world.'

'Well, sir, it's nothing to offend a young lady's ears. Beauchamp is for
socially enfranchising the sex--that is all. Quite enough. Not a whit
politically. Love is to be the test: and if a lady ceases to love her
husband . . . if she sets her fancy elsewhere, she's bound to leave him.
The laws are tyrannical, our objections are cowardly. Well, this Dr.
Shrapnel harangued about society; and men as well as women are to
sacrifice their passions on that altar. If he could burlesque himself it
would be in coming out as a cleric--the old Pagan!'

'Did he convince Captain Beauchamp?' the colonel asked, manifestly for
his daughter to hear the reply; which was: 'Oh dear, no!'

'Were you able to gather from Captain Beauchamp's remarks whether he is
much disappointed by the result of the election?' said Cecilia.

Mr. Tuckham could tell her only that Captain Beauchamp was incensed
against an elector named Tomlinson for withdrawing a promised vote on
account of lying rumours, and elated by the conquest of a Mr. Carpendike,
who was reckoned a tough one to drag by the neck. 'The only sane people
in the house are a Miss Denham and the cook: I lunched there,' Mr.
Tuckham nodded approvingly. 'Lydiard must be mad. What he's wasting his
time there for I can't guess. He says he's engaged there in writing a
prefatory essay to a new publication of Harry Denham's poems--whoever
that may be. And why wasting it there? I don't like it. He ought to be
earning his bread. He'll be sure to be borrowing money by-and-by. We've
got ten thousand too many fellows writing already, and they 've seen a
few inches of the world, on