explain that," the young man said glibly. "If you can
look at yourself with the same eyes with which you see other people, it
won't take long. Make a looking-glass of me, and it is done.

"You have now reached a high position in the worlds of politics and
literature, to which you have cut your way unaided.

"You are a great satirist, combining instruction with amusement, a sort
of comic Carlyle.

"You hate shams so much that if man had been constructed for it I dare
say you would kick at yourself.

"You have your enemies, but the very persons who blunt their weapons on
you do you the honour of sharpening them on 'Truth.' In short, you
have reached the summit of your fame, and you are too keen a man of the
world not to know that fame is a touch-and-go thing."

Andrew paused.

"Go on," said Mr. Labouchere.

"Well, you have now got fame, honour, everything for which it is
legitimate in man to strive.

"So far back as I can remember, you have had the world laughing with
you. But you know what human nature is.

"There comes a morning to all wits, when their public wakes to find
them bores. The fault may not be the wit's, but what of that? The
result is the same.

"Wits are like theatres: they may have a glorious youth and prime, but
their old age is dismal. To the outsider, like myself, signs are not
wanting--to continue the figure of speech--that you have put on your
last successful piece.

"Can you say candidly that your last Christmas number was more than a
reflection of its predecessors, or that your remarks this year on the
Derby day took as they did the year before?

"Surely the most incisive of our satirists will not let himself
degenerate into an illustration of Mr. Herbert Spencer's theory that
man repeats himself, like history.

"Mr. Labouchere, sir, to those of us who have grown up in your
inspiration it would indeed be pitiful if this were so."

Andrew's host turned nervously in his chair.

Probably he wished that he had gone to church now.

"You need not be alarmed," he said, with a forced smile.

"You will die," cried Andrew, "before they send you to the House of
Lords?"

"In which case the gain would be all to those left behind."

"No," said Andrew, who now felt that he had as good as gained the day;
"there could not be a greater mistake.

"Suppose it happened to-night, or even put it off to the end of the
week; see what would follow.

"The ground you have lost so far is infi