‘Then he would be,—­out of the way, sir.’

’What you mean perhaps is that you do not know how to get rid of him.’

’Of course I don’t pretend to know much about it; but they all think that he does know how to keep the party together.  I don’t think we are proud of him.’

‘Hardly that.’

’He is awfully useful.  A man has to look out so sharp to be always ready for those other fellows!  I beg your pardon, sir, but I mean your side.’

‘I understand who the other fellows are.’

’And it isn’t everybody who will go through such a grind.  A man to do it must be always ready.  He has so many little things to think of.  As far as I can see we all feel that we could not get along very well without him.’  Upon the whole the Duke was pleased with what he heard from his son.  The young man’s ideas about politics were boyish, but they were the ideas of a clear-headed boy.  Silverbridge had picked up some of the ways of the place, though he had not yet formed any sound political opinions.

Then Sir Timothy finished a long speech with a flowery peroration, in which he declared that if Parliament were desirous of keeping the realms of Her Majesty free from the invasions of foreigners it must be done by maintaining the dignity of the Judicial bench.  There were some clamours at this, and although it was now dinner-time Phineas Finn, who had been called a bellicose Irishman, was able to say a word or two.  ’The Right Honourable gentleman no doubt means,’ said Phineas, ’that we must carry ourselves with some increased external dignity.  The world is bewigging itself, and we must buy a bigger wig than any we have got, in order to confront the world with proper self-respect.  Turveydrop and deportment will suffice for us against odds.’

About half-past seven the House became very empty.  ’Where are going to dine, sir?’ asked Silverbridge.  The Duke, with something like a sigh, said he supposed he should dine at home.

‘You never were at the Beargarden;—­were you, sir?’ asked Silverbridge suddenly.

‘Never,’ said the Duke.

‘Come and dine with me.’

‘I am not a member of the club.’

‘We don’t care at all about that.  Anybody can take anybody.’

‘Does not that make it promiscuous?’

’Well;—­no; I don’t know that it does.  It seems to go on very well.  I daresay there are some cads there sometimes.  But I don’t know where one doesn’t meet cads.  There are plenty in the House of Commons.’

’There is something in that, Silverbridge, which makes me think that you have not realised the difference between private and public life.  In the former you choose your own associates and are responsible for your choice.  In the latter you are concerned with others for the good of the State; and though even for the State’s sake, you would not willingly be closely allied with those whom you think dishonest, the outward manners and fashions of life need create no barriers.  I should not turn up my nose at the House of Commons because some constituency might send them an illiterate shoemaker; but I might probably find the illiterate shoemaker an unprofitable companion for my private hours.’