Lord Reckage, in the meantime, had not been able to draw rein until he reached Grafton Street, where the hunter, of its own will, stopped short at a door, half glass and half mahogany, before which a groom stood watching, evidently with some suspense, for their approach. At the first sight of the animal and its rider, he hastened forward, and, seizing the bridle, assisted his master to dismount. Once on the ground, the young man satisfied his spleen by hitting the horse several vicious cuts with his whip. Then he informed the servant that it was his intention to walk home, and, with an ominous scowl, watched the “rushing beast” led from his sight. No one, except himself, was permitted to occupy that saddle.

The house which he now entered had been the town mansion for three generations of the Hampshires, but, despised by its then owner, whose young duchess wanted an Italian villa on Piccadilly, or a French chÂteau in Park Lane, the lease had been sold to a syndicate of rising politicians who formed a small organisation known, in those days, as the Mirafloreans.

“The little order,” we read in the Hon. Hercy Berenville's Memoirs, a malicious work printed for private circulation only—“the little order first came into notice under the name of the ‘Bond of Association,’ a High Church society founded by my brother, Lord Reckage. He formed his executive committee, however, on timorous and unexpected lines. He had tried to please the spiteful rather than the loyal. The loyal, he urged, were always forbearing, but the spiteful needed every attention. He disappointed alike the warmest and the most selfish among his supporters. True to his policy, he made desperate attempts to win over some vindictive men from among the Radicals, and, finally, in a fit of nervousness, declared, after five months of fruitful folly, his determination to reorganise the whole league on a strictly non-sectarian basis. He described himself as a moral philosopher. Once more he became a figure of interest, again he raised the standard, again he attracted a small company of enthusiasts, again it was expected that God's enemies would be scattered. He invited his former secretary, a Roman Catholic, to join the new society, but he made it clear that Orange, a man of real distinction, was in no sense a prominent member. The precise dogmata of Mirafloreanism—a nickname given, I believe, in ironic sympathy by Mr. Disraeli—were undefined, but the term gradually became associated with those ideals of conduct, government, and Art which poets imagine, heroes realise, and the ignorant destroy. Men of all, sundry, and opposing beliefs presumed to its credentials. Some, because the club appeared to flourish, many because it was not yet overcrowded, and a few because they were in perfect agreement with the varying opinions of its ultimate presiding genius, Disraeli himself. They worked quietly, not in the House of Commons, but outside it, delivering lectures, writing books, starting newspapers, holding meetings, and enlisting the sympathies of rich, idle, ambitious, or titled women. There seemed no end or limit to the variety of their interests, their methods of labour, or their conceit. The club—judged by the leonine measure of success—as a club did little for learning or literary men. It became a mere meeting-house for dining and drinking, but it promoted cordiality among the leading members of the young Tory party, and brought persons together who could not, in the ordinary way of life, have met each other at all. Although the more gaudy and best known among them came from the first second-rate families in England, the rank and file were formed mainly by young men of good estate and breeding—the sons of clergy, country squires, or merchants, all sprung from that class which is called Middle, because it represents civilised society neither in its rough beginnings nor in its tawdry decay.”

Berenville's remarks, it will be plainly seen, anticipate our history a little, for, at the time of which we write, the Bond of Association was still maintaining a sickly existence on its original programme. Orange had not yet been invited to join it, nor had Lord Reckage declared himself a moral philosopher.

On this particular afternoon his lordship entered, from the street, a narrow vestibule, the red walls of which were lit up by wax candles set at either end in ponderous bronze chandeliers. From this he passed into a square inner hall, paved with marble, and furnished by carved seats which had once belonged to the choir of an ancient chapel in Northumberland. Here he paused, for his attention was immediately arrested by a small group of four or five individuals who were talking with great earnestness at the foot of the oak staircase. Not that this was, in itself, an unusual event, for ever since a memorable day when the Earl of Bampton and the young Archdeacon of Soham, feeling warm, had ordered their tea to be served in that part of the building, it had been the fashion for distinguished members to assemble there, dispersing themselves in careless profusion among the statues of departed ecclesiastics or reclining pleasantly on the blue velvet divan which occupied the centre of the floor.

Foremost in the little company on this occasion stood Sir Edward Ullweather and Nigel Bradwyn, both private secretaries, and each secretly convinced that his peculiar powers would have found brilliant, volcanic opportunities of demonstration in the other's more promising berth. Ullweather, whose life had been devoted to the study of agricultural problems, was subordinate to the Secretary of State for War. Bradwyn, on the other hand, who had planted his soul in the East, was now learning what he could, at the nation's expense, of the nation's domestic policy. Demoralised by disappointment, and made cynical by toiling over interests for which they had, at best, but a forced regard, little remained in their breasts but a sore determination to make the best of an abiding discontent. In joining Lord Reckage's Committee, they found themselves again, as they believed, in a false position. The second-rate mind, whether represented in a person or by a council, shrinks from the adoption of simple measures, and invariably seeks to make itself conspicuous by so placing others as to make them appear unnecessary. The special genius of Lord Reckage was shown, perhaps, in his abilities in this direction, and, while he missed no opportunity of engaging men of proved capabilities for his service, his jealousy drove him so to employ them that they were never permitted to do their best either for him or for themselves. This policy carried in itself the sting for its own destruction.

Not far from Ullweather and Bradwyn, Randall Hatchett, the youngest member of the Executive, lounged against a pillar. Proud of a distinction which he dared not comprehend (for a commercial shrewdness made him suspect that he owed his position less to merit than to the subtle promises conveyed by a weak chin), this distinguished person tried to look the secrets which his colleagues had never permitted him to learn. In moody weariness he would sometimes condescend to the company of his subordinates on the General Committee and, while listening to their irresponsible prattle, he would seem to forget the onerous public interests the absolute neglect of which was his chief duty at the Council board.

Near this gentleman were two others, Hartley Penborough, the editor of The Sentinel, and the Hon. Charles Aumerle, whose guest he was.

As Lord Reckage entered and showed some intention of joining in the conversation, they appeared by a silent and common consent to ignore his approach. He turned to the hall porter, gave him some instructions in a low voice and passed on, livid with annoyance, to the library beyond.

“Hullo!” exclaimed Aumerle, “that was Reckage.”

“I know it,” said Randall Hatchett.

“Why didn't you speak to him?” asked Aumerle.

“Because,” said Bradwyn, “our good Hatchett is not so sure of himself that he can afford to be civil even to a President out of fashion!”

No one smiled except Hatchett himself, because each one felt it was unwise to encourage Bradwyn's peculiar humour.

“I would have spoken to Reckage,” said Ullweather, with a superior air, “but I have never felt the same toward him since he threw over Orange at the time of his election.”

“And several other old friends more recently!” observed the injudicious Bradwyn.

“I don't speak of myself,” said Ullweather, “but Orange was unusually devoted to the fellow; and all I wish to make clear is this, that when Reckage ever said or did the right thing in times past, the credit was solely due to Orange. He weeded prophecy from his speeches, and rudeness from his jokes. Great services, I assure you!”

“True,” said Randall Hatchett, “for there is nothing more fatal to a political career than brilliant impromptus and spirited orations. A statesman's words, like butcher's meat, should be well weighed.”

“You have so many prescriptions for success,” said Bradwyn, “that I wonder you ain't President yourself.”

“Reckage has taken us all in,” said Ullweather.

“By no means,” said Bradwyn. “I maintained from the first that he was overrated. His genial manner—his open-hearted smile! Men always smile at creditors whom they don't intend to pay.”

“I foretold the whole situation,” observed Penborough. “I said, ‘Let Reckage once get full power, and he will fool us all.’ He affects not to be ambitious, and to prefer moral science to immoral politics. I have no faith in these active politicians who make long speeches to the public, and assure their friends, in very short notes, that they prefer trout-fishing to the cares of State! There is but one man who can save the society now.”

Bradwyn, Hatchett, and Ullweather looked up, each armed with a modest and repudiating smile.

“Who?” asked Hatchett, looking down.

“Robert Orange,” said Penborough.

“Probably,” replied Hatchett, after a minute's hesitation. “Probably, Orange ... in time.”

“Don't you like him?” said Penborough.

“Like him!” answered Hatchett, rolling up his eyes. “He's an angel!”

“He calls him an angel as though he wished he were one in reality,” said Bradwyn. “I know these generous rivals!”

Ullweather stood gnawing his upper lip.

“Orange,” he said, at last. “Oh, Orange has arrived. He will get no further. Of course, he won that election, but Dizzy managed that. Dizzy is the devil! And then, he is still devoted to Reckage, and, for a man of his supposed shrewdness, I call that a sign of evident weakness.”

At this, Charles Aumerle, who had been listening with the deepest attention to all that passed, looked straight at the speaker.

“You should respect,” said he, “that liberty, which we all have to deceive ourselves. Reckage has many good points.”

“But,” said Penborough, “he has no moral force, no imagination. He judges men by their manners, which is silly. He thinks that every one who is polite to him believes in him. He will have to send in his resignation before long.”

“You don't mean it,” said Aumerle.

“I mean more,” continued Penborough. “He could not choose a better moment than the present. In another month, on its present lines, the whole league will have foundered. Should he remain, he would have to sink with the ship. Now, however, it appears safe enough—people see only what you see—a good cargo of influential names on the committee and a clear horizon. He could plead ill-health, or his marriage—in fact, a dozen excellent reasons for momentary retirement. The world would praise his tact. As for the rest, those who have been disillusioned will lose their heads, those who were merely self-seekers will probably lose their places, but the trimmers always keep something. The thing, then, is to cultivate the art of trimming.”

“But you forget that Reckage is going to marry Miss Carillon,” said Aumerle. “Miss Carillon will always advise the safe course.”

“That's all very well,” said Bradwyn, “but there has been too much arrangement in that marriage! I can tell you how the engagement came about. She was intimate with his aunt. He acquired the habit of her society on all decorous occasions. Still, he never proposed. The aunt invited her to Almouth. She stayed two months. Still, not a word. Her papa grew impatient, ordered her home. The next day she came to the breakfast-table with red eyes, and announced her departure. The boxes were packed; she went to take a last look at the dear garden. Reckage followed, Fate accompanied him. He spoke. She sent a telegram to her papa: ‘Detained. Important. Will write.’ No, the real woman for him was Lady Sara de Treverell.”

Ullweather thrust his tongue into his cheek.

“Lady Sara has been called to higher destinies,” said he, “than the heavenly ‘sweet hand in hand!’”

“I see you know,” said Bradwyn, with a mysterious glance.

“Yes,” said Ullweather. “The friendship of the Duke of Marshire for Lady Sara increases every day, and the little fit of giddiness which seized him when he was dining with my Chief makes me think that admiration is developing into love. I am in great hopes that this match may come off.”

“As to that,” said Hatchett, “her father and the Duke were the night before last at Brooks's, but no conversation passed between them. This does not look as though a very near alliance were in contemplation.”

“There are prettier women than she in the world,” said Aumerle.

“I have never seen her,” said Penborough.

“Large eyes, a small head, and the devil of a temper,” said Bradwyn; “and sympathies—there never was a young woman with so many sympathies! There is an old proverb,” he added, with a sneer, “‘They are not all friends of the bridegroom who seem to be following the bride.’”

Ullweather was still absorbed in his own meditation.

“Marshire,” said he, “is the man for us. We might do something with Marshire.”

“Nevertheless,” said Penborough, “I have my eye on Orange.”

“I say,” exclaimed Bradwyn, “be careful. Here is Reckage again. How the dickens did he pass us?”

The men glanced up at a solitary figure which now appeared descending the broad staircase. In silence, and with a studied expression of contempt, without a look either to the right or to the left, the unpopular leader passed through the hall and out into the street.

“A lonely beggar, after all,” said Bradwyn.