“Nay, nay, never look so glum, man,” Tucker laughed, and he took the Colonel by the arm. “Let us go somewhere where we can talk. We should have a deal to tell each other.” Holles swung him round. “Come to the Paul’s Head,” he bade him. “I am lodged there.” But the other hung back, hesitating a moment. “My own lodging is near at hand in Cheapside,” he said, and they turned about again. In silence they moved off together. At the corner of Paul’s Yard, Tucker paused, and turned to look across at the doorway of Paul’s and the fanatical preacher who stood there shrilling. His voice floated across to them. “Oh, the great and the dreadful God!” Tucker’s face set into grimly sardonic lines. “An eloquent fellow, that,” he said. “He should rouse these silly sheep from their apathy.” The Colonel stared at him, puzzled. There seemed to be an ulterior meaning to his words. But Tucker, without adding anything further, drew him away and on. In a handsome room on the first floor of one of the most imposing houses in Cheapside, Tucker waved his guest to the best chair. “An old friend, just met by chance,” he explained to his housekeeper, who came to wait upon him. “So it will be a bottle of sack ... of the best!” When, having brought the wine, the woman had taken herself off and the two sat within closed doors, the Colonel gave his friend the account of himself which the latter craved. Gravely Tucker heard him through, and grave his face remained when the tale was done. He sighed, and considered the Colonel a moment in silence with sombre eyes. “So George Monk’s your only hope?” he said, slowly, at last. Then he uttered a short, sharp laugh of infinite scorn. “In your case I think I’d hang myself and have done. It’s less tormenting.” “What do you mean?” “You think that Monk will really help you? That he intends to help?” “Assuredly. He has promised it, and he was my friend--and my father’s friend.” “Friend!” said the other bitterly. “I never knew a trimmer to be any man’s friend but his own. And if ever a trimmer lived, his name is George Monk--the very prince of trimmers, as his whole life shows. First a King’s man; then something betwixt and between King and Parliament; then a Parliament man, selling his friends of the King’s side. And lastly a King’s man again, in opposition to his late trusting friends of the Parliament. Always choosing the side that is uppermost or that can outbid the other for his services. And look where he stands; Baron of this, Earl of that, Duke of Albemarle, Commander-in-Chief, Master of the Horse, Gentleman of the Bedchamber, and God knows what else. Oh, he has grown fat on trimming.” “You do him wrong, Ned.” Holles was mildly indignant. “That is impossible.” “But you do. You forget that a man may change sides from conviction.” “Especially when it is to his own profit,” sneered Tucker.