‘Dressing does not take me more than ten minutes,’ said Lady Mabel.  Miss Cassewary declared this to be nonsense, but she nevertheless left the room.  Whether she would have done so if Lord Silverbridge had not been Lord Silverbridge, but had been some young man with whom it would not have been expedient that Lady Mabel should fall in love, may perhaps be doubted.  Lady Mabel herself would not have remained.  She had quite related the duties of life, had had her little romance,—­and had acknowledged that it was foolish.

‘I do so hope that you will do well,’ she said, going back to the parliamentary duties.

’I don’t think I shall ever do much.  I shall never be like my father.’

‘I don’t see why not.’

’There never was anybody like him.  I am always amusing myself, but he never cared for amusement.’

‘You are very young.’

’As far as I can learn he was just as he is now at my age.  My mother has told me that long before she married him he used to spend all his time in the House.  I wonder whether you would mind reading the letter he wrote to me when he heard of my election.’  Then he took the epistle out of his pocket and handed it to Lady Mabel.

‘He means what he says.’

‘He always does that.’

’And he really hopes that you will put your shoulder to the wheel,—­even though you must do so in opposition to him.’

’That makes no difference.  I think my father is a very fine fellow.’

‘Shall you do as he tells you?’

’Well,—­I suppose not;—­except that he advises me to hold my tongue.  I think I shall do that.  I mean to go down there, you know, and I daresay I shall be much the same as others.’

‘Has he talked to you much about it?’

’No;—­he never talks much.  Every now and then he will give me a downright lecture, or he will write me a letter like that; but he never talks to any of us.’

‘How very odd.’

’Yes; he is odd.  He seems to be fretful when we are with him.  A good many things make him unhappy.’

‘Your poor mother’s death.’

’That first;—­and then there are other things.  I suppose he didn’t like the way I came to an end in Oxford.’

‘You were a boy then.’

’Of course I was very sorry for it,—­though I hated Oxford.  It was neither one thing nor another.  You were your own master and yet you were not.’

‘Now you must be your own master.’

‘I suppose so.’

’You must marry, and become a lord of the Treasury.  When I was a child I acted as a child.  You know all about that.’

’Oh yes.  And now I must throw off childish things.  You mean that I mustn’t paint any man’s house?  Eh, Lady Mab.’

‘That and the rest of it.  You are a legislator now.’

’So is Popplecourt, who took his seat in the House of Lords two or three months ago.  He’s the biggest young fool I know out.  He couldn’t even paint a house.’