As usual, he had a book in his pocket.  This time it was a volume of selected essays, ranging from Bacon to Carlyle.  He began lazily to turn the pages, smiling to himself the while at the paradoxes of life.  Here, for an hour, he sat under the limes, drunk with summer breezes and scents, toying with a book, as though he were some “indolent irresponsible reviewer”—­some college fellow in vacation—­some wooer of an idle muse.  Yet dusk that evening would find him once more in the Babel of London.  And before him lay the most strenuous, and, as he hoped, the most fruitful passage of his political life.  Broadstone, too, was an old man; the Premiership itself could not be far away.

As for Lord Philip—­Ferrier’s thoughts ran upon that gentleman with a good-humor which was not without malice.  He had played his cards extremely well, but the trumps in his hand had not been quite strong enough.  Well, he was young; plenty of time yet for Cabinet office.  That he would be a thorn in the side of the new Ministry went without saying.  Ferrier felt no particular dismay at the prospect, and amused himself with speculations on the letters which had probably passed that very day between Broadstone and the “iratus Achilles” in Northamptonshire.

And from Lord Philip, Ferrier’s thoughts—­shrewdly indulgent—­strayed to the other conspirators, and to Oliver Marsham in particular, their spokesman and intermediary.  Suddenly a great softness invaded him toward Oliver and his mother.  After all, had he not been hard with the boy, to leave him to his fight without a word of help?  Oliver’s ways were irritating; he had more than one of the intriguer’s gifts; and several times during the preceding weeks Ferrier’s mind had recurred with disquiet to the letters in his hands.  But, after all, things had worked out better than could possibly have been expected.  The Herald, in particular, had done splendid service, to himself personally, and to the moderates in general.  Now was the time for amnesty and reconciliation all round.  Ferrier’s mind ran busily on schemes of the kind.  As to Oliver, he had already spoken to Broadstone about him, and would speak again that night.  Certainly he must have something—­Junior Lordship at least.  And if he were opposed on re-election, why, he should be helped—­roundly helped.  Ferrier already saw himself at Tallyn once more, with Lady Lucy’s frail hand in one of his, the other perhaps on Oliver’s shoulder.  After all, where was he happy—­or nearly happy—­but with them?

* * * * *

His eyes returned to his book.  With a mild amusement he saw that it had opened of itself at an essay, by Abraham Cowley, on “Greatness” and its penalties:  “Out of these inconveniences arises naturally one more, which is, that no greatness can be satisfied or contented with itself; still, if it could mount up a little higher, it would be happy; if it could not gain that point, it would obtain all its desires; but yet at last, when it is got up to the very top of the peak of Teneriffe, it is in very great danger of breaking its neck downward, but in no possibility of ascending upward—­into the seat of tranquillity about the moon.”