had given
advice to Lord John, and had been one of the first to congratulate
Sir Robert Peel when that statesman became a free-trader. He had sat
in conclave with THE Duke, and had listened to the bold Liberalism
of old Earl Grey, both in the Lower and the Upper House. He had
been always great in council, never giving his advice unasked, nor
throwing his pearls before swine, and cautious at all times to avoid
excesses on this side or on that. He had never allowed himself a
hobby horse of his own to ride, had never been ambitious, had never
sought to be the ostensible leader of men. But he did now think that
when, with all his experience, he spoke very much in earnest, some
attention should be paid to what he said. When he had described a
certain line of conduct as Quixotic he had been very much in earnest.
He did not usually indulge in strong language, and Quixotic, when
applied to the conduct of a Prime Minister, was, to his ideas, very
strong. The thing described as Quixotic had now been done, and the
Duke of St. Bungay was a disappointed man.

For an hour or two he thought that he must gently secede from all
private councils with the Prime Minister. To resign, or to put
impediments in the way of his own chief, did not belong to his
character. That line of strategy had come into fashion since he had
learnt his political rudiments, and was very odious to him. But in
all party compacts there must be inner parties, peculiar bonds, and
confidences stricter, stronger, and also sweeter than those which
bind together the twenty or thirty gentlemen who form a Government.
From those closer ties which had hitherto bound him to the Duke of
Omnium he thought, for a while, that he must divorce himself. Surely
on such a subject as the nomination of a Knight of the Garter his
advice might have been taken,--if only because it had come from him!
And so he kept himself apart for a day or two, and even in the House
of Lords ceased to whisper kindly, cheerful words into the ears of
his next neighbour.

But various remembrances crowded in upon him by degrees, compelling
him to moderate and at last to abandon his purpose. Among these the
first was the memory of the kiss which he had given the Duchess. The
woman had told him that she loved him, that he was one of the very
few whom she did love,--and the word had gone straight into his old
heart. She had bade him not to desert her; and he had not only given
her his promise, but he had con