A load, indeed, was lifted from his mind, and for some days his relief could be read in the lightness of his step, and the returning gaiety of his eyes. He knew nothing of the things which were being whispered about him. And though he had cause to fancy that he was not _persona grata_ on his own benches, he thought sufficiently well of himself to set this down to jealousy. There is a stage in the life of a rising man when many hands are against him; and those most cruelly which will presently applaud him most loudly. He flattered himself that he had set a foot on the ladder: and while he waited for an opportunity to raise himself another step, he came as near to a kind of feverish happiness as thoughts of Mary, ever recurring when he was alone, would permit. For the time the loss of his prospects ceased to trouble him seriously. He lived less in his rooms, more among men. He was less crabbed, less moody. And so the weeks wore away in Committee, and a day or two after the Coronation, the Bill came on for the third reading. The House was utterly weary. The leaders on both sides were reserving their strength for the final debate, and Vaughan had some hope that he might find an opening to speak with effect. With this in his mind he was on his way across the Park about three in the afternoon, conning his peroration, when a hand was clapped on his shoulder, and he turned to find himself face to face with Flixton. So much had happened since they stood together on the hustings at Chippinge, Vaughan’s fortunes had changed so greatly since they had parted in anger in Queen’s Square, that he, at any rate, had no thought of bearing malice. To Flixton’s “Well, my hearty, you’re a neat artist, ain’t you? Going to the House, I take it?” he gave a cordial answer. “Yes,” he said. “That’s it.” “Bringing ruination on the country, eh?” Flixton continued. And he passed his arm through Vaughan’s, and walked on with him. “That’s the ticket?” “Some say so, but I hope not.” “Hope’s a cock that won’t fight, my boy!” the Honourable Bob rejoined. “Fact is, you’re doing your best, only the House of Lords is in the way, and won’t let you! They’ll pull you up sweetly by and by, see if they don’t!” “And what will the country say to that?” Vaughan rejoined good-humouredly. “Country be d——d! That’s what all your chaps are saying. And I tell you what! That book-in-breeches man—what do you call him—Macaulay?—ought to be pulled up! He ought indeed! I read one of his farragoes the other day and it was full of nothing but ‘Think long, I beg, before you thwart the public will!’ and ‘The might of an angered people!’ and ‘Let us beware of rousing!’ and all that rubbish! Meaning, my boy, only he didn’t dare to say it straight out, that if the Lords did not give way to you chaps, there’d be a revolution; and the deuce to pay! And I say he ought to be in the dock. He’s as bad as old Brereton down in Bristol, predicting fire and flames and all the rest of it.”