There was an autumn session, and
he had been badgered all the afternoon in the Commons; his even temper
had been perilously near its limits, and he had been betrayed
unconsciously into certain ineptitudes which he knew would grin in his
face on the morrow from a dozen leading articles. The Continent seemed
on the edge of an outbreak; in the East especially, Russia by a score of
petty acts had seemed to foreshadow an incomprehensible policy. It was
a powder-barrel waiting for the spark; and he felt dismally that the
spark might come at any moment from some unlooked-for quarter of the
globe. He ran over in his mind the position of foreign affairs. All
seemed vaguely safe; and yet he was conscious that all was vaguely
unsettled. The world was on the eve of one of its cyclic changes, and
unrest seemed to make the air murky.
He tried to be polite and listened attentively to the lady on his right,
who was telling him the latest gossip about a certain famous marriage.
But his air was so manifestly artificial that she turned to the
presumably more attractive topic of his doings.
"You look ill," she said--she was one who adopted the motherly air
towards young men, which only a pretty woman can use. "Are they
over-working you in the House?"
"Pretty fair," and he smiled grimly. "But really I can't complain. I
have had eight hours' sleep in the last four days, and I don't think
Beauregard could say as much.
Pages:
167
168
169
170
171
172
173
174
175
176
177
178
179
180
181
182
183
184
185
186
187
188
189
190
191