from a long
colloquy with the Prime Minister, walking briskly across the square with
his secretary, smiling at some of the reporters in waiting. Twenty
minutes later, as he stood in the smoking-room of the Reform, surrounded
by a few privileged friends, Lankester passed through the room.

"By Jove," he said to a friend with him, "I believe Ferrier's done the
trick!"

* * * * *

In spite, however, of a contented mind, Ferrier was aware, on reaching
his own house, that he was far from well. There was nothing very much to
account for his feeling of illness. A slight pain across the chest, a
slight feeling of faintness, when he came to count up his symptoms;
nothing else appeared. It was a glorious summer evening. He determined
to go back to Chide, who now always returned to Lytchett by an evening
train, after a working-day in town. Accordingly, the new Chancellor of
the Exchequer and Leader of the House dined lightly, and went off to St.
Pancras, leaving a note for the Prime Minister to say where he was to be
found, and promising to come to town again the following afternoon.

* * * * *

The following morning fulfilled the promise of the tranquil evening and
starry night, which, amid the deep quiet of the country, had done much
to refresh a man, in whom, indeed, a stimulating consciousness of
success seemed already to have repaired the ravages of the fight.

Ferrier was always an early riser, and by nine o'clock he and Sir James
were pottering and smoking in the garden. A long case in which Chide had
been engaged had come to an end the preceding day. The great lawyer sent
word to his chambers that he was not coming up to town; Ferrier
ascertained that he was only half an hour from a telegraph office, made
a special arrangement with the local post as to a mid-day delivery of
letters, and then gave himself up for the morning to rest, gossip, and
a walk.

By a tiresome _contretemps_ the newspapers did not arrive at
breakfast-time. Sir James was but a new-comer in the district, and the
parcel of papers due to him had gone astray through the stupidity of a
newsboy. A servant was sent into Dunscombe, five miles off; and
meanwhile Ferrier bore the blunder with equanimity. His letters of the
morning, fresh from the heart of things, made newspapers a mere
superfluity. They could tell him nothing that he did not know already.
And as for opinions, those might wait.