“Of course you ought; I have often heard Lord Essendine say so.”

“Has he now, really?” asked Mr. Faulks, much flattered.

“Frequently,” went on Mrs. Wilders, fluently, availing herself readily of the opening he had given her.  “I am sure he has only to know that you are disappointed in this matter and he will give you the warmest support.  You know he belongs to the party now in power, and a word from him—­”

“If he will deign to interest himself on my behalf the matter is, of course, settled.”

“And he shall, rely on me for that.”

“How can I ever thank you sufficiently, dear lady, for your most gracious, most generous encouragement?  If I can serve you in any way, command me.”

“Well, you can oblige me in a little matter I have much at heart.”

“Only name it,” he cried, earnestly.

“Come and dine with me to-night in Thistle Grove.”

“Is that all?  I accept with enthusiasm.”

“Only a small party:  four at the most.  You know I am still in deepest mourning.  My poor dear general—­” she dropped her voice and her eyes.

“Ah!” said Mr. Faulks, sympathetically; “you have known great sorrows.  But you must not brood, dear lady:  we should struggle with grief.”  He took her hand, and looked at her in a kindly, pitying way.

The moment was ill-timed for interruption, but the blame was Sir Humphrey’s, who now sent the messenger with a fresh and more imperious summons for the attendance of Mr. Faulks.

He got up hurriedly, nervously, saying—­

“I must leave you, dear lady; there are matters of great urgency to be dealt with to-day.”

“No apologies:  it’s my fault for trespassing here.  I will run away.  To-night—­do not forget me, at eight,” and Mrs. Wilders took her departure.

The little house in Thistle Grove wore its most smiling aspect at evening, with its soft-shaded lamps, pretty hangings, and quantities of variegated, sweet-smelling flowers; it was radiant with light, full of perfume, bright in colour.

Mrs. Wilders’s guests were three—­Mrs. Jones, a staid, hard-featured, middle-aged lady in deep black, an officer’s widow like herself, as she explained, who lived a few doors down, and was an acquaintance of the last month or two, Mr. Hobson, and Mr. Faulks.

The dinner was almost studied in simplicity, but absolutely perfect of its kind.  Clear soup, salmon cutlets, a little joint, salad, and quail in vine-leaves.  The only wine was a sound medium claret, except at dessert, when, after the French fashion, Mrs. Wilders gave champagne.

Through dinner the talk had been light and trivial, but with dessert and coffee it gradually grew more serious, and touched upon the topics of the day.

“These must be trying times for you Government officials,” said Mr. Hobson, carelessly.

“Yes, indeed,” replied Mr. Faulks, with a deep sigh.  “I often feel that life is hardly worth having.”