“Yes,” sighed he, wearily, “I have heard and seen all you say; and yet I bethought me of a remark I once heard from the Duke of Orleans: 'Monsieur Upton is a most active minister when his health permits; and when it does not, he is the most mischievous intriguant in Europe.'” “He was always straining at an antithesis; he fancied he could talk like St. Simon, and it really spoiled a very pleasant converser.” “And so you have been very ill?” said Glencore, slowly, and as though he had not heeded the last remark; “so have I also!” “You seem to me too feeble to be about, Glencore,” said Upton, kindly. “I am so, if it were of any consequence,--I mean, if my life could interest or benefit any one. My head, however, will bear solitude no longer; I must have some one to talk to. I mean to travel; I will leave this in a day or so.” “Come along with me, then; my plan is to make for Brussels, but it must not be spoken of, as I want to watch events there before I remove farther from England.” “So it is all true, then,--you have resigned?” said Glencore. “Perfectly true.” “What a strange step to take! I remember, more than twenty years ago, your telling me that you'd rather be Foreign Secretary of England than the monarch of any third-rate Continental kingdom.” “I thought so then, and, what is more singular, I think so still.” “And you throw it up at the very moment people are proclaiming your success!” “You shall hear all my reasons, Glencore, for this resolution, and will, I feel assured, approve of them; but they 'd only weary you now.” “Let me know them now, Upton; it is such a relief to me when, even by a momentary interest in anything, I am able to withdraw this poor tired brain from its own distressing thoughts.” He spoke these words not only with strong feeling, but even imparted to them a tone of entreaty, so that Upton could not but comply. “When I wished for the Secretaryship, my dear Glencore,” said he, “I fancied the office as it used to be in olden times, when one played the great game of diplomacy with kings and ministers for antagonists, and the world at large for spectators; when consummate skill and perfect secrecy were objects of moment, and when grand combinations rewarded one's labor with all the certainty of a mathematical problem. Every move on the board could be calculated beforehand, no disturbing influences could derange plans that never were divulged till they were accomplished. All that is past and gone; our Constitution, grown every day more and more democratic, rules by the House of Commons. Questions whose treatment demands all the skill of a statesman and all the address of a man of the world come to be discussed in open Parliament; correspondence is called for, despatches and even private notes are produced; and while the State you are opposed to revels in the security of secrecy, _your_ whole game is revealed to the world in the shape of a blue-book.