nitesimal. It would be
forgotten in the general regret.

"Think of the newspaper placards next morning, some of them perhaps
edged with black; the leaders in every London paper and in all the
prominent provincial ones; the six columns obituary in the 'Times'; the
paragraphs in the 'World'; the motion by Mr. Gladstone or Mr. Healy for
the adjournment of the House; the magazine articles; the promised
memoirs; the publication of posthumous papers; the resolution in the
Northampton Town Council; the statue in Hyde Park! With such a
recompense where would be the sacrifice?"

Mr. Labouchere rose and paced the room in great mental agitation.

"Now look at the other side of the picture," said Andrew, rising and
following him: "'Truth' reduced to threepence, and then to a penny;
yourself confused with Tracy Turnerelli or Martin Tupper; your friends
running when you looked like jesting; the House emptying, the reporters
shutting their note-books as you rose to speak; the great name of
Labouchere become a synonym for bore!"

They presented a strange picture in that room, its owner's face now a
greyish white, his supplicant shaking with a passion that came out in
perspiration.

With trembling hand Mr. Labouchere flung open the window. The room was
stifling.

There was a smell of new-mown hay in the air, a gentle breeze tipped
the well-trimmed hedge with life, and the walks crackled in the heat.

But a stone's throw distant the sun was bathing in the dimpled Thames.

There was a cawing of rooks among the tall trees, and a church-bell
tinkled in the ivy far away across the river.

Mr. Labouchere was far away too.

He was a round-cheeked boy again, smothering his kitten in his
pinafore, prattling of Red Riding Hood by his school-mistress's knee,
and guddling in the brook for minnows.

And now--and now!

It was a beautiful world, and, ah, life is sweet!

He pressed his fingers to his forehead.

"Leave me," he said hoarsely.

Andrew put his hand upon the shoulder of the man he loved so well.

"Be brave," he said; "do it in whatever way you prefer. A moment's
suffering, and all will be over."

He spoke gently. There is always something infinitely pathetic in the
sight of a strong man in pain.

Mr. Labouchere turned upon him.

"Go," he cried, "or I will call the servants."

"You forget," said Andrew, "that I am your guest."

But his host only pointed to the door.

Andrew felt a great sinking at his heart.