“It remains with you to give the hint of abdication, my lord.” The little buffoon stood up and faced his pupil, while Temple, the empty cup in his hand, stood between the two, alternately looking at the one and the other. The group of men surrounding them were silent; and the sun, having slowly disappeared behind the trees of Hyde Park, had left the Frigidarium in a mysterious twilight most appropriate to the ominous words of Danford. “They will all follow your lordship. The reform must come from within. The dark days are over when you said to the rushing wave of the people: ‘Thou shalt go no further.’ They leapt over the rocks then, and, to prove their power, cut your heads off; which on the whole was a poor argument of persuasion, even if it was one of force. No lasting reform can be obtained but from within; and the Upper House has it in its power to avert the catastrophe of its downfall by taking voluntarily a leading part in all the reforms of our Society.” “You mean by taking a backseat,” sniggered Lord Mowbray. The spell was broken, and the twilight scene of prophecy was transformed into one of malicious discord. “I cannot see what you want with the co-operation of publishers, Mr Danford; you are Diogenes and Lycurgus both rolled into one, and methinks you need no one to assist you in fixing our destinies.” “I only give gentle hints concerning your future relations towards each other, Lord Mowbray; publishers will step in later, to inform you as to your intrinsic value.” Danford bowed to Lord Mowbray and, turning to Lionel, said, “Where do you intend going this evening, my lord?” “After a light collation I am taking Hornsby to the Empire to see Holophernes; it was one of the great attractions before the storm.” “Yes, and likely to be the last of that kind; but I shall leave your lordship to judge for yourself.” “Ta-ta, Danford—shall see you to-morrow early about the Dining-Halls scheme.” CHAPTER IX Nettie Collins, Gwendolen’s social guide, declared she had nothing more to teach her pupil now she had made such progress in the art of observation, recognised her lover, and just lately known her father again. This last event had been curious. One day, Gwen was walking through the rooms of the National Gallery, enjoying the beauty of art that had been hidden from her for so many years; as she stood in front of Pinturicchio’s “Story of Griselda,” wondering at the past generations who not only allowed, but insisted on women turning themselves into beasts of burden, she noticed a middle-aged man of commanding stature, close to her, gazing at the same picture. She looked up and her eyes met his; her present surroundings vanished, and she lived in an evoked dream, which brought back past scenes and long-buried joys. As she stared at him, she little by little reconstructed the scenes of her childhood, and as in a trance her lovely lips faintly murmured the word “Father.”