dicated that theoretically he preferred a
republic. For this he was denounced by the papers, and socially
shunned. He was accused of disloyalty and treason, with the greatest
heat, everywhere. His name was a byword. The Prince of Wales happened
about this time to get very ill, and this added still further to the
anger men felt at Charles Dilke.

He didn't back down. He went out and made speeches to workmen, repeating
his anti-King criticisms. There was rioting by Tory roughs--iron bars
thrown--men injured and killed. Crowds collected who swore that Dilke
should not get away alive from the hall. He waited till the excitement
was hottest, then came out the main door alone, stood quietly looking at
them, lit a cigar, and walked off.

He did, however, gradually calm down the nation in one way, by showing
them that, though he objected to monarchical errors, he didn't wish to
upset the monarchy while it suited the people. He thought it absurd, but
it would be still more absurd to upset it--that is to say, while those
governed wanted it. This attitude, and time (several years of it) slowly
stilled the excitement. The net result was to make this man a notable
and recognized power.

His power kept growing. His influence was great in the House. His views
were strong, but reasoned and sane, and his industry endless. He was now
forty-two. Gladstone, with whom he tilted at first, picked him as his
successor. It looked as though this great progressive would be premier
of England.

Then, in a night, the Fates crushed him. Returning home from a dinner in
his honor, he found a letter there, waiting.

It said that the wife of a member of Parliament had confessed to her
husband that she had been unfaithful to him with Charles Dilke soon
after her marriage.

This, of course, meant a scandal. And a scandal meant he couldn't be
premier. He couldn't even sit in the cabinet. His career was destroyed.

Sir Charles (as he now was) had been married, but his wife had soon
died. After ten years as a widower, he had become engaged to Emilia
Strong--you remember?--the same Emilia whom he had worshiped when he was
sixteen. (She had been married, too, in the meantime, but she now was a
widow.) His principal concern with this blow was not to let it hurt her.
He sent her the news, told her he was innocent, and added, "I feel this
may kill you--and it will kill me, either if it kills you or if you
don't believe me."

She stood by him, married hi