Mr. Hebblethwaite permitted himself a single moment of abstraction.  He sat at the head of the table in his own remarkably well-appointed dining-room.  His guests—­there were eighteen or twenty of them in all—­represented in a single word Success—­success social as well as political.  His excellently cooked dinner was being served with faultless precision.  His epigrams had never been more pungent.  The very distinguished peeress who sat upon his right, and whose name was a household word in the enemy’s camp, had listened to him with enchained and sympathetic interest.  For a single second he permitted his thoughts to travel back to the humble beginnings of his political career.  He had a brief, flashlight recollection of the suburban parlour of his early days, the hard fight at first for a living, then for some small place in local politics, and then, larger and more daring schemes as the boundary of his ambitions became each year a little further extended.  Beyond him now was only one more step to be taken.  The last goal was well within his reach.

The woman at his right recommenced their conversation, which had been for a moment interrupted.

“We were speaking of success,” she said.  “Success often comes to one covered by the tentacles and parasites of shame, and yet, even in its grosser forms, it has something splendid about it.  But success that carries with it no apparent drawback whatever is, of course, the most amazing thing of all.  I was reading that wonderful article of Professor Wilson’s last month.  He quotes you very extensively.  His analysis of your character was, in its way, interesting.  Directly I had read it, however, I felt that it lacked one thing—­simplicity.  I made up my mind that the next time we talked intimately, I would ask you to what you yourself attributed your success?”

Hebblethwaite smiled graciously.

“I will not attempt to answer you in epigrams,” he replied.  “I will pay a passing tribute to a wonderful constitution, an invincible sense of humour, which I think help one to keep one’s head up under many trying conditions.  But the real and final explanation of my success is that I embraced the popular cause.  I came from the people, and when I entered into politics, I told myself and every one else that it was for the people I should work.  I have never swerved from that purpose.  It is to the people I owe whatever success I am enjoying to-day.”

The Duchess nodded thoughtfully.

“Yes,” she admitted, “you are right there.  Shall I proceed with my own train of thought quite honestly?”

“I shall count it a compliment,” he assured her earnestly, “even if your thoughts contain criticisms.”

“You occupy so great a position in political life to-day,” she continued, “that one is forced to consider you, especially in view of the future, as a politician from every point of view.  Now, by your own showing, you have been a specialist.  You have taken up the cause of the people against the classes.  You have stripped many of us of our possessions—­the Duke, you know, hates the sound of your name—­and by your legislation you have, without a doubt, improved the welfare of many millions of human beings.  But that is not all that a great politician must achieve, is it?  There is our Empire across the seas.”