nt to his birth, and probably also his first
introduction to official life. An heir to a dukedom, if he will only
work hard, may almost with certainty find himself received into one
or the other regiment in Downing Street. It had not in his early days
been with him as it had with his friends Mr. Monk and Phineas Finn,
who had worked their way from the very ranks. But even a duke cannot
become Prime Minister by favour. Surely he had done something of
which he might be proud. And so he tried to console himself.

But to have done something was nothing to him,--nothing to his
personal happiness,--unless there was also something left for him to
do. How should it be with him now,--how for the future? Would men
ever listen to him again, or allow him again to work in their behoof,
as he used to do in his happy days in the House of Commons? He feared
that it was all over for him, and that for the rest of his days he
must simply be the Duke of Omnium.

CHAPTER LXXIV

"I Am Disgraced and Shamed"

Soon after the commencement of the Session Arthur Fletcher became a
constant visitor in Manchester Square, dining with the old barrister
almost constantly on Sundays, and not unfrequently on other days when
the House and his general engagements would permit it. Between him
and Emily's father there was no secret and no misunderstanding. Mr.
Wharton quite understood that the young member of Parliament was
earnestly purposed to marry his daughter, and Fletcher was sure of
all the assistance and support which Mr. Wharton could give him. The
name of Lopez was very rarely used between them. It had been tacitly
agreed that there was no need that it should be mentioned. The man
had come like a destroying angel between them and their fondest
hopes. Neither could ever be what he would have been had that man
never appeared to destroy their happiness. But the man had gone away,
not without a tragedy that was appalling;--and each thought that, as
regarded him, he and the tragedy might be, if not forgotten at least
put aside, if only that other person in whom they were interested
could be taught to seem to forget him. "It is not love," said the
father, "but a feeling of shame." Arthur Fletcher shook his head,
not quite agreeing with this. It was not that he feared that she
loved the memory of her late husband. Such love was, he thought,
impossible. But there was, he believed, something more than the
feeling which her father described as sh