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. They prate who say it is success that tries a man. He flung himself at Mr. Labouchere's feet. "Think of the public funeral," he cried. His host seized the bell-rope and pulled it violently. "If you will do it," said Andrew solemnly, "I promise to lay flowers on your grave every day till I die." "John," said Mr. Labouchere, "show this gentleman out." Andrew rose. "You refuse?" he asked. "I do." "You won't think it over? If I call again, say on Thursday--" "John!" said Mr. Labouchere. Andrew took up his hat. His host thought he had gone. But in the hall his reflection in a looking-glass reminded the visitor of something. He put his head in at the doorway again. "Would you mind telling me," he said, "whether you see anything peculiar about my neck?" "It seems a good neck to twist," Mr. Labouchere answered, a little savagely. Andrew then withdrew. CHAPTER VII This unexpected rebuff from Mr. Labouchere rankled for many days in Andrew's mind. Had he been proposing for the great statesman's hand he could not have felt it more. Perhaps he did not make sufficient allowance for Mr. Labouchere; it is always so easy to advise. But to rage at a man (or woman) is the proof that we can adore them; it is only his loved ones who infuriate a Scotchman. There were moments when Andrew said to himself that he had nothing more to live for. Then he would upbraid himself for having gone about it too hurriedly, and in bitter self-contempt strike his hand on the railings, as he rushed by. Work is the sovereign remedy for this unhealthy state of mind, and fortunately Andrew had a great deal to do. Gradually the wound healed, and he began to take an interest in Lord Randolph Churchill.