Sir Henry, having no wish that way, had not
at first performed this act of volition. His own particular friends
in the cabinet, those to whom he had individually attached himself,
were gone; but, nevertheless, he made no sign; he was still ready to
support the government, and as the attorney-general was among those
who had shaken the dust from their feet and gone out, Sir Henry
expected that he would, as a matter of course, walk into that
gentleman's shoes.

But another learned gentleman was appointed, and then at last Sir
Henry knew that he must go. He had resigned; but no resignation had
ever appeared to have less of volition in it. And how could it be
otherwise? Political success was everything to him; and, alas! he had
so played his cards that it was necessary to him that that success
should be immediate. He was not as those are who, in losing power,
lose a costly plaything, which they love indeed over well, but the
loss of which hurts only their pride. Place to him was everything;
and feeling this, he had committed that most grievous of political
sins--he had endeavoured to hold his place longer than he was wanted.
Now, however, he was out. So much, in some sort of way, Bertram had
learnt before he left Southampton.

His first business in London was to call on Mr. Pritchett.

"Oh, master George! oh, master George!" began that worthy man, as
soon as he saw him. His tone had never been so lachrymose, nor his
face so full of woe. "Oh, master George!"

Bertram in his kindest way asked after his uncle.

"Oh, master George! you shouldn't be going to them furren
parts--indeed you shouldn't; and he in such a state."

"Is he worse than when I last saw him, Mr. Pritchett?"

"Gentlemen at his time of life don't get much better, master
George--nor yet at mine. It's half a million of money;
half--a--million--of--money! But it's no use talking to you, sir--it
never was."

By degrees Bertram gathered from him that his uncle was much weaker,
that he had had a second and a much more severe attack of paralysis,
and that according to all the doctors, the old gentleman was not much
longer for this world. Sir Omicron himself had been there. Miss Baker
had insisted on it, much in opposition to her uncle's wishes. But
Sir Omicron had shaken his head and declared that the fiat had gone
forth.

Death had given his order; the heavy burden of the half-million must
be left behind, and the soul must walk forth, free from all its