take care not to commit yourself in
speaking so that our party can't vote for you consistently; they must
count on having you--when you get into the House."

"I am not a violent party-man at present," answered Randal, prudently.
"And if public opinion prove on your side, it is the duty of a statesman
to go with the times."

"Very sensibly said; and I have a private bill or two, and some other
little jobs, I want to get through the House, which we can discuss
later, should it come to a frank understanding between us. We must
arrange how to meet privately at Lansmere, if necessary. I'll see to
that. I shall go down this week. I think of taking a hint from the free
and glorious land of America, and establishing secret caucuses. Nothing
like 'em."

"Caucuses?"

"Small sub-committees that spy on their men night and day, and don't
suffer them to be intimidated to vote the other way."

"You have an extraordinary head for public affairs, Avenel. You should
come into parliament yourself; your nephew is so very young."

"So are you."

"Yes; but I know the world. Does he?"

"The world knows him, though not by name, and he has been the making of
me."

"How? You surprise me."

Avenel first explained about the patent which Leonard had secured
to him; and next confided, upon honour, Leonard's identity with the
anonymous author whom the parson had supposed to be Professor Moss.

Randal Leslie felt a jealous pang. What! then--had this village boy,
this associate of John Burley (literary vagabond, whom he supposed
had long since gone to the dogs, and been buried at the expense of the
parish)--had this boy so triumphed over birth, rearing, circumstance,
that, if Randal and Leonard had met together in any public place, and
Leonard's identity with the rising author had been revealed, every eye
would have turned from Randal to gaze on Leonard? The common consent of
mankind would have acknowledged the supreme royalty of genius when it
once leaves its solitude, and strides into the world. What! was
this rude villager the child of Fame, who, without an effort, and
unconsciously, had inspired in the wearied heart of Beatrice di Negra
a love that Randal knew, by an instinct, no arts, no craft, could ever
create for him in the heart of woman? And now, did this same youth stand
on the same level in the ascent to power as he, the well-born Randal
Leslie, the accomplished protege of the superb Audley Egerton? Were they
to be rivals in