scene that night in the House of Commons had been for him a scene of
conflict; in the main, also, of victory. His virile powers, capacities,
and ambitions had been at their height. He had felt the full spell of
the English political life, with all its hard fighting joy, the
exhilaration which flows from the vastness of the interests on which it
turns, and the intricate appeal it makes, in the case of a man like
himself, to a hundred inherited aptitudes, tastes, and traditions.

And here he stood in the darkness, wondering whether indeed the best of
his life were not over--the prey of forebodings as strong and vagrant as
the gusts outside.

Birds of the night! He forced himself to bed, and slept heavily. When he
woke up, the May sun was shining into his room. Kitty, in the freshest
of morning dresses, was sitting on his bed like a perching bird, waiting
impatiently till his eyes should open and she could ask him his opinion
on her dress for the ball. The savor and joy of life returned upon him
in a flood. Kitty was the prettiest thing ever seen; he had scored off
those Tory fellows the night before; the Parhams' dinner was all right;
and life was once more kind, manageable, and full of the most agreeable
possibilities. A certain indolent impatience in him recoiled from the
mere recollection of the night before. The worry was over; why think of
it again?

VIII

Meanwhile Lady Tranmore had reached home, and after one of those
pathetic hours in her husband's room which made the secret and sacred
foundation of her daily life, she expected Mary Lyster, who was to dine
at Tranmore House before the two ladies presented themselves at a
musical party given by the French Ambassadress. Before her guest's
arrival, Lady Tranmore wandered about her rooms, unable to rest, unable
even to read the evening papers on Ashe's speech, so possessed was she
still by her altercation with Kitty, and by the foreboding sense of what
it meant. William's future was threatened; and the mother whose whole
proud heart had been thrown for years into every successful effort and
every upward step of her son, was up in arms.

Mary Lyster arrived to the minute. She came in, a tall gliding woman,
her hair falling in rippled waves on either side of her face, which in
its ample comeliness and placidity reminded the Italianate Lady Tranmore
of many faces well known to her in early Siennese or Florentine art.
Mary's dress to-night was of a noble red,