'Politics are nothing more to her than pawns in the game of love.' The two men stood looking at each other for a moment. The matter was too serious for them even to swear. Then they walked on again. 'Do you think,' asked Nick, 'she will be in the best of tempers when she hears she is sung about in coffee-houses? Do you think she will blame anybody but Kelly for blabbing? She will give the ballad to Lady Mary Wortley Montagu, and isn't Kelly of Lady Mary's friends? No, he did not blab, but never mind. She will think he did. And do you know that she is a kinswoman of the minister, Mr. Walpole? Let her say a word, and she _will_ say it, and where is Mr. Farmer's affair?' 'Where the Elector's hat and wig often are--in the fire,' answered Tyrell, looking serious enough. 'That letter which I took up was from her; I know her hand. She is stirring.' Wogan opened the scented letter as he walked. It was but to say that Lady Oxford had heard that Mr. Hilton was in town, and begged the favour of his company at her rout that night. He told Tyrell what there was to tell, both of them looking very unlike a May sunset as they walked under the trees. Since he left Brampton Bryan, Mr. Wogan had not been favoured with any compliments from Lady Oxford. Why did she begin her favours to-day? 'She is stirring,' he said again. By this time they were got within the Park. There much was stirring. Carts were streaming in and out with soldiers driving, soldiers lounging among the burdens of planks, tents, picks, and spades. Beside the Walnut Walk soldiers in their shirt sleeves were digging, trenching, measuring; a child could see what was toward--they were meting out a camp. Mr. Wogan looked at Mr. Tyrell, Mr. Tyrell looked at Mr. Wogan. 'The lady _has_ stirred,' said Tyrell in dismay. 'And what is more she knows of the Blow.' 'Or Mr. Scrotton is not a very honest man,' said Wogan, and whistled "Lilliburlero." He was disposed on the whole to agree with Tyrell. Somehow Lady Oxford had got news of the inner plot; perhaps through this mysterious Mr. Scrotton. The Walnut Walk was all astir and agape with evening loungers; it hummed with gossip. The two gentlemen went to the Cake House, sat down, and called for glasses of ratafia. Studying the face of Mr. Tyrell, of which his own was no doubt the very likeness, Mr. Wogan inferred that they needed this refreshment.