d
abstained also from their ordinary occupations,--except so far as
politics is one of them. He cared nothing for oxen or for furrows.
In regard to his own land he hardly knew whether the farms were large
or small. He had been a scholar, and after a certain fitful fashion
he had maintained his scholarship, but the literature to which he
had been really attached had been that of blue-books and newspapers.
What was he to do with himself when called upon to resign? And he
understood,--or thought that he understood,--his position too well to
expect that after a while, with the usual interval, he might return
to power. He had been Prime Minister, not as the leading politician
on either side, not as the king of a party, but,--so he told
himself,--as a stop-gap. There could be nothing for him now till the
insipidity of life should gradually fade away into the grave.

After a while he got up and went off to his wife's apartment, the
room in which she used to prepare her triumphs and where now she
contemplated her disappointments. "I have had the Duke with me," he
said.

"What;--at last?"

"I do not know that he could have done any good by coming sooner."

"And what does his Grace say?"

"He thinks that our days are numbered."

"Psha!--is that all? I could have told him that ever so long ago. It
was hardly necessary that he should disturb himself at last to come
and tell us such well-ventilated news. There isn't a porter at one of
the clubs who doesn't know it."

"Then there will be the less surprise,--and to those who are
concerned perhaps the less mortification."

"Did he tell you who was to succeed you?" asked the Duchess.

"Not precisely."

"He ought to have done that, as I am sure he knows. Everybody knows
except you, Plantagenet."

"If you know, you can tell me."

"Of course, I can. It will be Mr. Monk."

"With all my heart, Glencora. Mr. Monk is a very good man."

"I wonder whether he'll do anything for us. Think how destitute we
shall be! What if I were to ask him for a place! Would he not give it
us?"

"Will it make you unhappy, Cora?"

"What;--your going?"

"Yes;--the change altogether."

She looked him in the face for a moment before she answered, with a
peculiar smile in her eyes to which he was well used,--a smile half
ludicrous and half pathetic,--having in it also a dash of sarcasm.
"I can dare to tell the truth," she said, "which you can't. I can be
honest and straightforward. Yes, it wi