“Ferrier has not the smallest intention of going to the Lords!” he said, at last—­not without a touch of impatience.

“That’s the party’s affair.”

“The party owes him a deal too much to insist upon anything against his will.”

“Does it!—­does it!” said Lankester.  “Ferrier always reminds me of a cat we possessed at home, who brought forth many kittens.  She loved them dearly, and licked them all over—­tenderly—­all day.  But by the end of the second day they were always dead.  Somehow she had killed them all.  That’s what Ferrier does with all our little Radical measures—­loves ’em all—­and kills ’em all.”

McEwart flushed.

“Well, it’s no good talking,” he said, doggedly; “we’ve done enough of that!  There will be a meeting of the Forward Club next week, and we shall decide on our line of action.”

“Broadstone will never throw him over.”  Lankester threw another glance at Marsham.  “You’ll only waste your breath.”

Lord Broadstone was the veteran leader of the party, who in the event of victory at the polls would undoubtedly be Prime Minister.

“He can take Foreign Affairs, and go to the Lords in a blaze of glory,” said McEwart.  “But he’s impossible!—­as leader in the Commons.  The party wants grit—­not dialectic.”

Marsham still said nothing.  The others fell to discussing the situation in much detail, gradually elaborating what were, in truth, the first outlines of a serious campaign against Ferrier’s leadership.  Marsham listened, but took no active part in it.  It was plain, however, that none of the group felt himself in any way checked by Marsham’s presence or silence.

Presently Marsham—­the debate in the House having fallen to levels of dulness “measureless to man”—­remembered that his mother had expressed a wish that he might come home to dinner.  He left the House, lengthening his walk for exercise, by way of Whitehall and Piccadilly.  His expression was still worried and preoccupied.  Mechanically he stopped to look into a picture-dealer’s shop, still open, somewhere about the middle of Piccadilly.  A picture he saw there made him start.  It was a drawing of the chestnut woods of Vallombrosa, in the first flush and glitter of spring, with a corner of one of the monastic buildings, now used as a hotel.

She was there.  At an official crush the night before he had heard Chide say to Lady Niton that Miss Mallory had written to him from Vallombrosa, and was hoping to stay there till the end of June.  So that she was sitting, walking, reading, among those woods.  In what mood?—­with what courage?  In any case, she was alone; fighting her grief alone; looking forward to the future alone.  Except, of course, for Mrs. Colwood—­nice, devoted little thing!