parted by four inches. The gas was
turned low, but under the chandelier was the figure of a young man
struggling with an overcoat. The Honourable Hilary did not hesitate, but
came forward with a swiftness that paralyzed the young man, who turned
upon him a face on which was meant to be written surprise and a just
indignation, but in reality was a mixture of impudence and pallid
fright. The Honourable Hilary, towering above him, and with that grip on
his arm, was a formidable person.

"Listening, were you, Ham?" he demanded.

"No," cried Mr. Tooting, with a vehemence he meant for force. "No, I
wasn't. Listening to who?"

"Humph!" said the Honourable Hilary, still retaining with one hand the
grip on Mr. Tooting 's arm, and with the other turning up the gas until
it flared in Mr. Tooting's face. "What are you doing in the governor's
room?"

"I left my overcoat in here this afternoon when you sent me to bring up
the senator."

"Ham," said Mr. Vane, "it isn't any use lying to me."

"I ain't lying to you," said Mr. Tooting, "I never did. I often lied for
you," he added, "and you didn't raise any objections that I remember."

Mr. Vane let go of the arm contemptuously.

"I've done dirty work for the Northeastern for a good many years," cried
Mr. Tooting, seemingly gaining confidence now that he was free; "I've
slaved for 'em, and what have they done for me? They wouldn't even back
me for county solicitor when I wanted the job."

"Turned reformer, Ham?"

"I guess I've got as much right to turn reformer as some folks I know."

"I guess you have," agreed the Honourable Hilary; unexpectedly. He
seated himself on a chair, and proceeded to regard Mr. Tooting in
a manner extremely disconcerting to that gentleman. This quality of
impenetrability, of never being sure when he was angry, had baffled more
able opponents of Hilary Vane than Mr. Hamilton Tooting.

"Good-night, Ham."

"I want to say--" Mr. Tooting began.

"Good-night, Ham," said Mr. Vane, once more.

Mr. Tooting looked at him, slowly buttoned up his overcoat, and
departed.

CHAPTER XIII. THE REALM OF PEGASUS

The eventful day of Mr. Humphrey Crewe's speech on national affairs
dawned without a cloud in the sky. The snow was of a dazzling whiteness
and sprinkled with diamond dust; and the air of such transcendent
clearness that Austen could see--by leaning a little out of the Widow
Peasley's window--the powdered top of Holdfast Mountain some thirty