“Ah, well, ah, well!” the Sergeant replied—pleasantness was his cue to-day. “Things are worse in Bath I’ll be sworn, Mr. White.” “No doubt, sir, no doubt! I think,” White added, forgetting his study of Cobbett, “the nation has gone mad.” After that Vaughan’s other neighbour, Squire Rowley, who met him annually at Stapylton, claimed his ear. The old fellow, hearty and good-natured, but a bigoted Tory, who would have given Orator Hunt four dozen and thought Lord Grey’s proper reward a block on Tower Hill, was the last person whom Vaughan would have chosen for a confidant; since only to hear of a Vermuyden turned Whig would have gone near to giving him a fit. Perforce, nevertheless, Vaughan had to listen to him and answer him; he could not without rudeness cut him short. But all the time as they talked, Vaughan’s uneasiness increased. With every minute his eyes wandered more longingly to the door. Improved in temper by the fare and by the politeness of his neighbours, he began to see that he had been foolish to thrust himself among people with whom he did not agree. Still he was there; and he must see the dinner to an end. After all a little more or a little less would not add to Sir Robert’s anger. He could explain that he thought it more delicate to avoid an open scandal. Meanwhile the collision with the crowd had loosened the guests’ tongues and never had a Vermuyden dinner gone more freely. Even the “Cripples,” whose wont it was to begin the evening with odious obsequiousness and close it with a freedom as unpleasant, found speech early, and were loudest in denunciation of a Bill which threatened to deprive them of their annuities. By the time huge joints had taken the place of the tureens, and bowls of potatoes and mounds of asparagus dotted the table, the noise was incessant. There was claret for those who cared for it, and strong ale for all. And while some discussed the effect which a Bill that disfranchised Chippinge would have on their pockets and interests, others driving their arguments home with blows on the table recalled, almost with tears, the sacred name of Pitt—the pilot who weathered the storm; or held up to execration a cabinet of Whigs dead to every Whig principle, and alive only to the chance of power which a revolution might afford. “But what was to be expected? What was to be expected?” old Rowley insisted. “We’ve only ourselves to thank! When Peel and the Duke took up the Catholic Claims they stepped into the Whigs’ shoes—and devilishly may they pinch them! The Whigs had to find another pair, you see, sir, and stepped into the Radicals’! And the only people left at a loss are the honest part of us; who are likely to end not only barefoot but barebacked! Ay, by G—d, we are!”