“What amuses you?” Brougham asked, with a certain petulence. For at bottom, and in cases where no rivalry existed, he was good-natured; and in his heart he was sorry for the young man. But then, if one began to think of the pawn’s feelings, the game he was playing would be spoiled. “What is it?” “I was thinking,” Mr. Cornelius answered slowly, “of purity.” He sniffed. “And the Whigs!” Meanwhile Arthur Vaughan was striding down Bruton Street with every angry passion up in arms. He was too clever to be tricked twice, and he saw precisely what had happened. Brougham—well, well was he called Wicked Shifts!—reviewing the Borough List before the General Election, had let his eyes fall on Sir Robert’s seats at Chippinge; and looking about, with his customary audacity, for a means of snatching them, had alighted on him—and used him for a tool! Now, he was of no farther use. And, as the loss of his expectations rendered it needless to temporise with him, he was contemptuously tossed aside. And this was the game of politics which he had yearned to play! This was the party whose zeal for the purity of elections and the improvement of all classes he had shared, and out of loyalty to which he had sacrificed a fortune! He strode along the crowded pavement of Parliament Street—it was the fashionable hour of the afternoon and the political excitement kept London full—his head high, his face flushed. And unconsciously as he shouldered the people to right and left, he swore aloud. As he uttered the word, regardless in his anger of the scene about him, his fixed gaze pierced for an instant the medley of gay bonnets and smiling faces, moving chariots and waiting footmen, which even in those days filled Parliament Street—and met another pair of eyes. The encounter lasted for a second only. Then half a dozen heads and a parasol intervened. And then—in another second—he was abreast of the carriage in which Mary Vermuyden sat, her face the prettiest and her bonnet the daintiest—Lady Worcester had seen to that—of all the faces and all the bonnets in Parliament Street that day. The landau in which she sat was stationary at the edge of the pavement; and on the farther side of her reposed a lady of kind face and ample figure. For an instant their eyes met again; and Mary’s colour, which had fled, returned in a flood of crimson, covering brow and cheeks. She leaned from the carriage and held out her white-gloved hand. “Mr. Vaughan!” she said. And he might have read in her face, had he chosen, the sweetest and frankest appeal. “Mr. Vaughan!”