“Go more into the world, Maltravers--go more into the world, or quit it altogether. Your enemies must be met; they accumulate, they grow strong--you are too tranquil, too slow in your steps towards the prize which should be yours, to satisfy my impatience, to satisfy your friends. Be less refined in your ambition that you may be more immediately useful. The feet of clay after all are the swiftest in the race. Even Lumley Ferrers will outstrip you if you do not take heed. * * * * * “Why do I run on thus!--you--you love another, yet you are not less the ideal that I could love--if ever I loved any one. You love--and yet--well--no matter.” CHAPTER II. “Well, but this is being only an official nobleman. No matter, ‘tis still being a nobleman, and that’s his aim.” _Anonymous writer of 1772_. “La musique est le seul des talens qui jouissent de lui-meme; tons les autres veulent des temoins.” *--MARMONTEL. * Music is the sole talent which gives pleasure of itself; all the others require witnesses. “Thus the slow ox would gaudy trappings claim.”--HORACE. MR. TEMPLETON had not obtained his peerage, and, though he had met with no direct refusal, nor made even a direct application to headquarters, he was growing sullen. He had great parliamentary influence, not close borough, illegitimate influence, but very proper orthodox influence of character, wealth, and so forth. He could return one member at least for a city--he could almost return one member for a county, and in three boroughs any activity on his part could turn the scale in a close contest. The ministers were strong, but still they could not afford to lose supporters hitherto zealous--the example of desertion is contagious. In the town which Templeton had formerly represented, and which he now almost commanded, a vacancy suddenly occurred--a candidate started on the opposition side and commenced a canvass; to the astonishment and panic of the Secretary of the Treasury, Templeton put forward no one, and his interest remained dormant. Lord Saxingham hurried to Lumley. “My dear fellow, what is this?--what can your uncle be about? We shall lose this place--one of our strongholds. Bets run even.” “Why, you see, you have all behaved very ill to my uncle--I am really sorry for it, but I can do nothing.” “What, this confounded peerage! Will that content him, and nothing short of it?” “Nothing.” “He must have it, by Jove!” “And even that may come too late.” “Ha! do you think so?” “Will you leave the matter to me?” “Certainly--you are a monstrous clever fellow, and we all esteem you.” “Sit down and write as I dictate, my dear lord.” “Well,” said Lord Saxingham, seating himself at Lumley’s enormous writing-table--“well, go on.” “_My dear Mr. Templeton_--” “Too familiar,” said Lord Saxingham. “Not a bit; go on.” “_My dear Mr. Templeton:_--