rly,' but the
Duke would not permit of his taking the same side in the House, and so
he affected illness they say, and came abroad."

"The usual fortune of your _protege_ members--they have the pleasant
alternative of inconsistency or ingratitude. Why didn't he resign his
seat?"

"It is mere coquetry with Peel. They told me at Brookes's that he
wanted a mission abroad, and would 'throw over' the Duke at the first
opportunity. Now Peel gives nothing for nothing. For open apostasy
he will pay, and pay liberally; but for mere defalcation, he'll give
nothing."

"Templeton has outwitted himself, then; besides that, he has no standing
in the House to play the game alone."

"A smart fellow, too, but no guidance. If he had been deep, he must have
seen that old Wrexington only gave him the borough till Collyton was of
age to come in. It was meant for Kitely, but he refused the conditions.
'I cannot be a tenant-at-will, my lord,' said he; and so they took
Templeton."

I could bear no more. How I reached my inn I cannot remember. A severe
fit of coughing overtook me as I ascended the stairs, and a small vessel
gave way--a bad symptom, I believed; but the doctor of the place, whom
my servant soon brought to my bedside, applied leeches, and I was better
a few hours after.

The first use I made of strength was to write a brief note to the Duke,
resigning the borough. The next post brought me his reply, full of
compliment and assurance of esteem, accepting my resignation, and
acknowledging his full concurrence in the reasons I had given for my
step. The division was against him; and he half-jestingly remarked, it
might have been otherwise if I had fought on his side.

The letter was civil throughout, but in that style that shews a tone of
careless ease had been adopted to simulate frankness. I had had enough
of his Grace, and of politics too!

CHAPTER VI.

So, all is settled!--I leave Paris to-morrow. I hate leave-takings, even
where common acquaintanceship only is concerned. I shall just write a
few lines to the Favancourts, with the volume of Balzac--happily I know
no one else here--and then for the road!

Why this haste to set out, I cannot even tell to myself. I know, I feel,
I shall never pass this way again; I have that sense of regret a last
look at even indifferent objects suggests, and yet I would be "en route"
There are places and scenes I wish to see before I go hence, and I feel
that my hours are number