him, than to
self-conquest; but he was no doubt entitled to make the most of them.
There were signs indeed that his forecast had been not at all
unreasonable. His womenkind _were_ making their way. At the very moment
when Lord Maxwell had written him a quelling letter, he had become aware
that Marcella was on good terms with Lord Maxwell's heir. Had he not
also been stopped that morning in a remote lane by Lord Winterbourne and
Lord Maxwell on their way back from the meet, and had not both
recognised and shaken hands with him? And now there were these cards.

Unfortunately, in spite of Raeburn's opinion to the contrary, no man in
such a position and with such a temperament ever gets something without
claiming more--and more than he can conceivably or possibly get.
Startled and pleased at first by the salutation which Lord Maxwell and
his companion had bestowed upon him, Richard Boyce had passed his
afternoon in resenting and brooding over the cold civility of it. So
these were the terms he was to be on with them--the deuce take them and
their pharisaical airs! If all the truth were known, most men would look
foolish; and the men who thanked God that they were not as other men,
soonest of all. He wished he had not been taken by surprise; he wished
he had not answered them; he would show them in the future that he would
eat no dirt for them or anybody else.

So on the way home there had been a particular zest in his chance
encounter with the young man who was likely to give the Raeburns and
their candidate--so all the world said--a very great deal of trouble.
The seat had been held to be an entirely safe one for the Maxwell
nominee. Young Wharton, on the contrary, was making way every day, and,
what with securing Aldous's own seat in the next division, and helping
old Dodgson in this, Lord Maxwell and his grandson had their hands full.
Dick Boyce was glad of it. He was a Tory; but all the same he wished
every success to this handsome, agreeable young man, whose deferential
manners to him at the end of the day had come like ointment to a wound.

The three sat on together for a little while in silence. Marcella kept
her seat by the fire on the old gilt fenderstool, conscious in a
dreamlike way of the room in front of her--the stately room with its
stucco ceiling, its tall windows, its Prussian-blue wall-paper behind
the old cabinets and faded pictures, and the chair covers in Turkey-red
twill against the blue, which still