The Prime Minister

hours spent in the manipulation of the multiplication table. And she could not but observe that the old Duke now spoke to her much less frequently of her husband’s political position than had been his habit. Through the first year and a half of the present ministerial arrangement he had been constant in his advice to her, and had always, even when things were difficult, been cheery and full of hope. He still came frequently to the house, but did not often see her. And when he did see her he seemed to avoid all allusion either to the political successes or the political reverses of the Coalition. And even her other special allies seemed to labour under unusual restraint with her. Barrington Erle seldom told her any news. Mr. Rattler never had a word for her. Warburton, who had ever been discreet, became almost petrified by discretion. And even Phineas Finn had grown to be solemn, silent, and uncommunicative. “Have you heard who is the new Prime Minister?” she said to Mrs. Finn one day.

“Has there been a change?”

“I suppose so. Everything has become so quiet that I cannot imagine that Plantagenet is still in office. Do you know what anybody is doing?”

“The world is going on very smoothly, I take it.”

“I hate smoothness. It always means treachery and danger. I feel sure that there will be a great blow up before long. I smell it in the air. Don’t you tremble for your husband?”

“Why should I? He likes being in office because it gives him something to do; but he would never be an idle man. As long as he has a seat in Parliament, I shall be contented.”

“To have been Prime Minister is something after all, and they can’t rob him of that,” said the Duchess, recurring again to her own husband. “I half fancy sometimes that the charm of the thing is growing upon him.”

“Upon the Duke?”

“Yes. He is always talking of the delight he will have in giving it up. He is always Cincinnatus, going back to his peaches and his ploughs. But I fear he is beginning to feel that the salt would be gone out of his life if he ceased to be the first man in the kingdom. He has never said so, but there is a nervousness about him when I suggest to him the name of this or that man as his successor which alarms me. And I think he is becoming a tyrant with his own men. He spoke the other day of Lord Drummond almost as though he meant to have him whipped. It isn’t what one expected from him;⁠—is it?”

“The weight of the load on his mind makes him irritable.”

“Either that, or having no load. If he had really much to do he wouldn’t surely have time to think so much of that poor wretch who destroyed himself. Such sensitiveness is simply a disease. One can never punish any fault in the world if the sinner can revenge himself upon us by rushing into eternity. Sometimes I see him shiver and shudder, and then I know that he is thinking of Lopez.”

“I can understand all that, Lady Glen.”

“It isn’t as it should be, though you can understand it. I’ll bet you a guinea that Sir Timothy Beeswax has to go out before the beginning of next Session.”

“I’ve no objection. But why Sir Timothy?”

“He mentioned Lopez’ name the other day before Plantagenet. I heard him. Plantagenet pulled that long face of his, looking as though he meant to impose silence on the whole world for the next six weeks. But Sir Timothy is brass itself, a sounding cymbal of brass that nothing can silence. He went on to declare with that loud voice of his that the death of Lopez was a good riddance of bad rubbish. Plantagenet turned away and left the room and shut himself up. He didn’t declare to himself that he’d dismiss Sir Timothy, because that’s not the way of his mind. But you’ll see that Sir Timothy will have to go.”

“That, at any rate, will be a good riddance of bad rubbish,” said Mrs. Finn, who did not love Sir Timothy Beeswax.

Soon after that the Duchess made up her mind that she would interrogate the Duke of St. Bungay as to the present state of affairs. It was then the end of June, and nearly one of those long and tedious months had gone by of which the Duke spoke so feelingly when he asked Phineas Finn to come down to Matching. Hope had been expressed in more than one quarter that this would be a short Session. Such hopes are much more common in June than in July, and, though rarely verified, serve to keep up the drooping spirits of languid senators. “I suppose we shall be early out of town, Duke,” she said one day.

“I think so. I don’t see what there is to keep us. It often happens that ministers are a great deal better in the country than in London, and I fancy it will be so this year.”

“You never think of the poor girls who haven’t got their husbands yet.”

“They should make better use of their time. Besides, they can get their husbands in the country.”

“It’s quite true that they never get to the end of their labours. They are not like you members of Parliament who can shut up your portfolios and go and shoot grouse. They have to keep at their work spring and summer, autumn and winter⁠—year after year! How they must hate the men they persecute!”

“I don’t think we can put off going for their sake.”

“Men are always selfish, I know. What do you think of Plantagenet lately?” The question was put very abruptly, without a moment’s notice, and there was no avoiding it.

“Think of him!”

“Yes;⁠—what do you think of his condition;⁠—of his happiness, his health, his capacity of endurance? Will he be able to go on much longer? Now, my dear Duke, don’t stare