And so on, and so on; even White, who was vastly relieved by Vaughan’s arrival, which made his majority safe, talked freely, and gave Dyas and Pillinger of the Blue Duck the rough side of his tongue. While Vaughan, used to a freer atmosphere, listened to their one-sided arguments, their trite prophecies, their incredible prejudices—such they seemed to him—and now turned up his nose, now pitied them, as an effete, a doomed, a dying race. While he thought of this the dinner wore on, the joints vanished, and huge steaming puddings made their appearance on the board; those who cared not for plum puddings could have marrow-puddings. Then cheese and spring onions, and some special old ale, light coloured, heady, and served in tall, spare glasses, went round. At length the rector, a trifle flushed, rose to say grace, and Vaughan saw that the cloth was about to be removed. Bottles of strong port and tawny Madeira were at hand. Some called already for their favourite punch, or for hot grog. “Now,” he thought, “I can escape with a good grace. And I will!” But as he made a movement to rise, the Sergeant rose opposite him, lifted his glass, and fixed him with his eye. And Vaughan felt that he could not leave at that moment without rudeness. “Gentlemen, on your feet, if you please,” he cried blandly. “The King! The King, God bless him! The King, gentlemen, and may he never suffer for the faults of his servants! May the Grey mare never run away with him. May William the Good ne’er be ruined by a—bad Bill! Gentlemen, the King, God bless him, and deliver him from the Whigs!” They drank the toast amid a roar of laughter and applause. And once more as they sat down Vaughan thought that he would escape. Again he was hindered. This time the interruption came from behind. “Hallo, Vaughan!” someone muttered in his ear. “You’re the last person I expected to see here!” He turned and disgust filled him. The speaker, who had just entered, was the son of a clergyman in the neighbourhood and had gone to the bar. He was a shifty, flattering fellow, at once a toady and a backbiter; who had wormed himself into society too good for him, and in London was Vaughan’s _bête noir_. But had that been all! Alas, he was also a member of the Academic. He had been present at Vaughan’s triumph ten days before, and had heard him proclaim himself a Reformer of the Reformers. For a moment Vaughan could find not a word. He could only mutter “Oh!” in a tone of dismay. He feared that his face betrayed the chagrin he felt. “I thought you were quite the other way?” Mowatt said. And he grinned. He was a weedy, pale young man, with thin lips and a false smile. Vaughan hesitated. “So I am!” he said curtly. “But—but I thought——” “Order! Order!” cried the Alderman, a trifle uplifted by wine and his position. “Silence, if you please, gentlemen, for the Senior Candidate! And charge your glasses!”