ung man so singularly
self-possessed, so agreeably oracular, so remarkably long-headed, might
be expected, in the course of some five-and-twenty years, to go far. He
was, to be sure, a child--not yet thirty--but there were older children
in the House decidedly of less promise. Mr. Wilfrid Athel might go home,
and, if he could, go to sleep, in the assurance that his career had
opened.

The next day, a Saturday, this finished little piece of talk was the
starting-point of a vast amount of less coherent speech in a
drawing-room within sight of Kensington's verdure. Here Mrs. Ashley
Birks did her friends the honour of receiving them; a lady well regarded
in certain discriminating circles. A widow formerly, she had now been
two years married to a barrister new in silk. We have the pleasure of
knowing her; for she once bore the name of Mrs. Rossall.

At half-past five Mrs. Ashley Birks' drawing-room contained some two
dozen people, mostly ladies. Two of the gentlemen present are not
without interest for us. He whom you observe standing, so to speak, the
focus of a concave mirror of three gracious dames, with his back
somewhat difficultly bent, as if under ordinary circumstances he would
be as upright as any Briton who owes not a penny, with very wholesome
cheeks and lips which move in and out as he forms his well-rounded
periods, is, of course, Mr. Athel the elder; he plays with his
watch-guard, and is clearly in hearty mood, not at all disliking the
things that are being said about a certain member of the legislature.
The other is as emphatically an Englishman, but of a different type; his
clothes are good, but he does not wear them with grace; he is tall and
solidly built, but he walks awkwardly, and is not quite at home among
these gracious ladies of the silvern tongue, having much difficulty in
expressing himself on subjects which he perfectly understands, and
absolutely without faculty for speech on subjects unfamiliar to him.
When we saw him last he was in the heat of a contested election; there
has been another election since then, but Mr. Baxendale still represents
Dunfield.

You see his wife at a little distance, still the same smooth-skinned,
well-preserved lady, with goodness declaring itself upon her large and
homely features. For three years now she has been in the habit of
spending her three months in town, finding it lonely in Dunfield, and
even nourishing a late ambition, which has not been altogether futil