For a few moments he was at once bewildered and annoyed at hearing that he was required to change, but, when he had paid the customary fees and found himself once more alone in a well-lit carriage, this annoyance disappeared before a renewal of the problem which vexed him. His mind, however, was vigorous, he bent upon that problem the fullest of his energies, and, as the train pulled out of the quiet little wayside station of Keynes, he had very nearly arrived at the firm conclusion, that so much was to be said upon either side, as to make the judgment of some further adviser necessary before a determination could be taken. His mind was hardly fixed upon this excellent solution when the train stopped; he heard called the name of Great Monckton, and the presence of a servant who led him to a carriage, the honest English courtesy of the Porter, Stationmaster, Guard, Newsagent, Ticket Collector, and General Boy, the sharp country air and the name of Placton several times repeated, gave him that sentiment of repose which accompanies the neighbourhood of the great. And the carriage rolled, and scented woods passed incessant through the evening, and more and more did Mr Burden feel himself to be approaching security and the basis upon which our England is founded. There was a lodge, a fine gate cast in imitation of wrought-iron and gilded in the Aylesbury manner, an aged woman who courtesied with astonishing charm, a drive of close upon a mile, ancient and well-groomed trees, a square church tower showing dimly against the sky, and, in a dale which the drive skirted, a lake with boat house, island and terrace, as in the well-known view. Mr Burden, noting all these things with pure intent, felt something old in his blood: he revered in his mind Lord Benthorpe’s mighty image, and laid his doubts at the feet of so much achievement and experience. He thirsted (if I may use the phrase) for the presence of the British statesman. It was not long delayed. They led him into that majestic house, dark, panelled, venerable: walls so old that no man now living there had seen them rise, oak felled before Her late Majesty assumed the sceptre, furniture compared with whose taste that of Prince Albert was modern, deep carpets from Brussels and Aubusson, pictures by the Oxford Turner, by Etty, by Frith, by men whose very names are forgotten—they led him, I say, past these monumental splendours, till he reached a vast apartment wherein by the light of two candles of pure yellow wax Lord Benthorpe sat alone—an illuminate spiritual figure startling against a background of vague darkness and suggested tapestries. I have said enough of this statesman’s build, manner and history to convince my readers that the moment was supreme in Mr Burden’s life. As he entered and was announced, he felt so keenly the emotions of awe and gratitude that he hesitated for a moment to advance.