“I will never help the dogs again,” she said, coming up to him and clinging within the embrace of his arm.
He knew that he had been quixotic, and he would sit in his chair repeating the word to himself aloud, till he himself began to fear that he would do it in company. But the thing had been done and could not be undone. He had had the bestowal of one Garter, and he had given it to Lord Earlybird! It was—he told himself, but not correctly—the only thing that he had done on his own undivided responsibility since he had been Prime Minister.
The last days of July had passed, and it had been at last decided that the Session should close on the 11th of August. Now the 11th of August was thought to be a great deal too near the 12th to allow of such an arrangement being considered satisfactory. A great many members were very angry at the arrangement. It had been said all through June and into July that it was to be an early Session, and yet things had been so mismanaged that when the end came everything could not be finished without keeping members of Parliament in town up to the 11th of August! In the memory of present legislators there had never been anything so awkward. The fault, if there was a fault, was attributable to Mr. Monk. In all probability the delay was unavoidable. A minister cannot control long-winded gentlemen, and when gentlemen are very long-winded there must be delay. No doubt a strong minister can exercise some control, and it is certain that long-winded gentlemen find an unusual scope for their breath when the reigning dynasty is weak. In that way Mr. Monk and the Duke may have been responsible, but they were blamed as though they, for their own special amusement, detained gentlemen in town. Indeed the gentlemen were not detained. They grumbled and growled and then fled—but their grumblings and growlings were heard even after their departure.
“Well;—what do you think of it all?” the Duke said one day to Mr. Monk, at the Treasury, affecting an air of cheery good-humour.
“I think,” said Mr. Monk, “that the country is very prosperous. I don’t know that I ever remember trade to have been more evenly satisfactory.”
“Ah, yes. That’s very well for the country, and ought, I suppose, to satisfy us.”
“It satisfies me,” said Mr. Monk.
“And me, in a way. But if you were walking about in a very tight pair of boots, in an agony with your feet, would you be able just then to relish the news that agricultural wages in that parish had gone up sixpence a week?”
“I’d take my boots off, and then try,” said Mr. Monk.
“That’s just what I’m thinking of doing. If I had my boots off all that prosperity would be so pleasant to me! But you see you can’t take your boots off in company. And it may be that you have a walk before you, and that no boots will be worse for your feet even than tight ones.”
“We’ll have our boots off soon, Duke,” said Mr. Monk, speaking of the recess.
“And when shall we be quit of them altogether? Joking apart, they have to be worn if the country requires it.”
“Certainly, Duke.”
“And it may be that you and I think that upon the whole they may be worn with advantage. What does the country say to that?”
“The country has never said the reverse. We have not had a majority against us this Session on any Government question.”
“But we have had narrowing majorities. What will the House do as to the Lords’ amendments on the Bankruptcy Bill?” There was a Bill that had gone down from the House of Commons, but had not originated with the Government. It had, however, been fostered by Ministers in the House of Lords, and had been sent back with certain amendments for which the Lord Chancellor had made himself responsible. It was therefore now almost a Government measure. The manipulation of this measure had been one of the causes of the prolonged sitting of the Houses.
“Grogram says they will take the amendments.”
“And if they don’t?”
“Why then,” said Mr. Monk, “the Lords must take our rejection.”
“And we shall have been beaten,” said the Duke.
“Undoubtedly.”
“And beaten simply because the House desires to beat us. I am told that Sir Timothy Beeswax intends to speak and vote against the amendments.”
“What—Sir Timothy on one side, and Sir Gregory on the other?”
“So Lord Ramsden tells me,” said the Duke. “If it be so, what are we to do?”
“Certainly not go out in August,” said Mr. Monk.
When the time came for the consideration of the Lords’ amendments in the House of Commons—and it did not come till the 8th of August—the matter was exactly as the Duke had said. Sir Gregory Grogram, with a great deal of earnestness, supported the Lords’ amendment—as he was in honour bound to do. The amendment had come from his chief, the Lord Chancellor, and had indeed been discussed with Sir Gregory before it had been proposed. He was very much in earnest;—but it was evident from Sir Gregory’s earnestness that he expected a violent opposition. Immediately after him rose Sir Timothy. Now Sir Timothy was a pretentious man, who assumed to be not only an advocate but a lawyer. And he assumed
