t malaise! But what could he
do in that coming life? Write books? What sort of books could he write?
Only such as expressed his views of citizenship, his political and
social beliefs. As well remain sitting and speaking beneath those
towers! He could never join the happy band of artists, those soft and
indeterminate spirits, for whom barriers had no meaning, content-to
understand, interpret, and create. What should he be doing in that
galley? The thought was inconceivable. A career at the Bar--yes, he
might take that up; but to what end? To become a judge! As well continue
to sit beneath those towers! Too late for diplomacy. Too late for the
Army; besides, he had not the faintest taste for military glory. Bury
himself in the country like Uncle Dennis, and administer one of his
father's estates? It would be death. Go amongst the poor? For a moment
he thought he had found a new vocation. But in what capacity--to order
their lives, when he himself could not order his own; or, as a mere
conduit pipe for money, when he believed that charity was rotting the
nation to its core? At the head of every avenue stood an angel or devil
with drawn sword. And then there came to him another thought. Since he
was being cast forth from Church and State, could he not play the fallen
spirit like a man--be Lucifer, and destroy! And instinctively he at once
saw himself returning to those towers, and beneath them crossing the
floor; joining the revolutionaries, the Radicals, the freethinkers,
scourging his present Party, the party of authority and institutions.
The idea struck him as supremely comic, and he laughed out loud in the
street....

The Club which Lord Dennis frequented was in St. James's untouched by
the tides of the waters of fashion--steadily swinging to its moorings
in a quiet backwater, and Miltoun found his uncle in the library. He was
reading a volume of Burton's travels, and drinking tea.

"Nobody comes here," he said, "so, in spite of that word on the door, we
shall talk. Waiter, bring some more tea, please."

Impatiently, but with a sort of pity, Miltoun watched Lord Dennis's
urbane movements, wherein old age was, pathetically, trying to make
each little thing seem important, if only to the doer. Nothing his
great-uncle could say would outweigh the warning of his picturesque old
figure! To be a bystander; to see it all go past you; to let your sword
rust in its sheath, as this poor old fellow had done! The notion of
expl