To an eye and ear less practised in courts than this minister’s, all that had been said would have been really satisfactory: but Lord Oldborough discerned a secret embarrassment in the smile, a constraint in the manner, a care, an effort to be gracious in the language, a caution, a rounding of the periods, a recurrence to technical phrases of compliment and amity, a want of the free fluent language of the heart; language which, as it flows, whether from sovereign or subject, leaves a trace that the art of courtier or of monarch cannot imitate. In all attempts at such imitation, there is a want, of which vanity and even interest is not always sensible, but which feeling perceives instantly. Lord Oldborough felt it--and twice, during this audience, he was on the point of offering his resignation, and twice, exerting strong power over himself, he refrained. He saw plainly that he was not where he had been in the king’s confidence; that his enemies had been at work, and, in some measure, had succeeded; that suspicions had been infused into the king’s mind. That his king had doubted him, his majesty had confessed--and Lord Oldborough discerned that there was no genuine joy at the moment his majesty was undeceived, no real anxiety for his honour, only the ostensible manifestation suitable to the occasion--repeatable--or recordable. Still there was nothing of which he could complain; every expression, if written down or repeated, must have appeared proper and gracious from the sovereign to his minister; and for that minister to resign at such a moment, from pride or pique, would have been fatal to the dignity, perhaps to the integrity, of his character. Lord Oldborough reasoned thus as he stood in the presence of the king, and compelled himself, during the whole audience, and to the last parting moment, to preserve an air and tone of calm, respectful self-possession. CHAPTER XXXVIII. During Lord Oldborough’s absence, his faithful secretary had been active in his service. Mr. Temple went immediately to his friend Alfred Percy. Alfred had just returned fatigued from the courts, and was resting himself, in conversation with his wife and Caroline. “I am sorry to disturb you, Alfred,” said Mr. Temple, “but I must take you away from these ladies to consult you on particular business.” “Oh! let the particular business wait till he has rested himself,” said Mrs. Percy, “unless it be a matter of life and death.” “Life and death!” cried Lady Frances Arlington, running in at the open door--“Yes, it is a matter of life and death!--Stay, Mr. Temple! Mr. Percy! going the moment I come into the room--Impossible!” “Impossible it would be,” said Mr. Temple, “in any other case; but--” “‘When a lady’s in the case, You know all other things give place,’”