Lionel met many friends on his way to Richmond; it was the fashion to drive in the morning to neighbouring parks before luncheon. Here was Lord Roneldson, who had lost a stone since the storm. Poor old Harry! the first days must have been trying to him! The self-indulgent fop, incapable of the slightest mental or physical effort, had had no alternative between standing or falling; and only after many days of bitter experience, had he discovered his centre of gravity. There came along old Joe Watson, puffing and blowing, redder than ever. At his side drove Lord Petersham, who held his reins well in hand and felt his steed’s mouth as tactfully as he did many other things in life. He guided Watson through the labyrinth of London life, but he had often found his plebeian friend’s mouth harder to handle than any horse’s. Watson had been taken up by Petersham, and pulled through his election by him, for he was member for East Langton. Lord Petersham did Watson the signal honour of accepting heavy cheques from him before the storm, for which, in exchange, he gave him a lift up the social ladder. Watson in return helped his Mentor to directorships of several companies, and brought to his clubs all the bigwigs on the Stock Exchange. At times the noble Amphitrion muttered under his grey moustache, that they were infernal cads, but very soon his steely eyes preached common-sense to his tempestuous lips, bringing back to his mind the practical philosophy, “Make use of all,” which is, after all, but reading backwards, “Forgive everyone.” These two most antagonistic companions went arm in arm along Pall Mall, into clubs, Music Halls and all sorts of haunts in which a liberal education is afforded to all sorts of men. Watson was very proud of his vulgarity, which he called straightforwardness; he was equally vain of his insular ignorance, which he benignly termed patriotism; but of all things he was most proud of the shop in Oxford Street, where he had for years past walked up and down, asking the ladies what was their pleasure. He had a few decided opinions, or prejudices if you like, which hung round his plebeian form like labels, and which no Peer of the realm could have torn off: he hated clever women, _recherché_ dinners, and foreign countries. His temper was strange; he was generally of an opposing turn of mind on all intellectual subjects and of the most agreeing disposition when conventional topics were on the tapis. He never spoke in the House, and no one spoke about him. Such men are surely the pillars of a party, for they never think, never interrupt, and are never thought of. They possess a few signposts in their brains, and rarely go wherever _danger_ is posted up. Such men keep England together, as cement fastens the stones safely to one another, but, like cement, are ugly and thick. Petersham often kicked at this bundle of grotesqueness. Watson was so totally devoid of the discerning powers which graced his lordship’s