“Come now,” said Mrs. Wade, rousing herself from meditation, “let us talk about the Irish question.”

Lilian addressed herself conscientiously to the subject, but it did not really interest her; she had no personal knowledge of Irish hardships, and was wearied by the endless Parliamentary debate.  Her thoughts still busied themselves with the hopeful project for smoothing Mrs. Wade’s path in life.

When the carriage came for her, she took her leave with regret, but full of happy imaginings.  She had quite forgotten the all but self-betrayal into which she was led during that chat about novels.

Two days later Quarrier was again absent from home on business, and Lilian spent the evening with the Liversedges.  Supper was over, and she had begun to think of departure, when the drawing-room door was burst open, and in rushed Denzil, wet from head to foot with rain, and his face a-stream with perspiration.

“They dissolve at Easter!” he cried, waving his hat wildly.  “Northcote announced it at five this afternoon.  Hammond has a telegram; I met him at the station.”

“Ho! ho! this is news!” answered Mr. Liversedge, starting up from his easy-chair.

“News, indeed!” said his wife; “but that’s no reason, Denzil, why you should make my carpet all ram and mud.  Do go and take your coat off, and clean your boots, there’s a good boy!”

“How can I think of coat and boots?  Here, Lily, fling this garment somewhere.  Give me a duster, or something, to stand on, Molly.  Toby, we must have a meeting in a day or two.  Can we get the Public Hall for Thursday or Friday?  Shall we go round and see our committee-men to-night?”

“Time enough to-morrow; most of them are just going to bed.  But how is it no one had an inkling of this?  They have kept the secret uncommonly well.”

“The blackguards!  Ha, ha!  Now for a good fight!  It’ll be old Welwyn-Baker, after all, you’ll see.  They won t have the courage to set up a new man at a moment’s notice.  The old buffer will come maudling once more, and we’ll bowl him off his pins!”

Lilian sat with her eyes fixed upon him.  His excitement infected her, and when they went home together she talked of the coming struggle with joyous animation.

CHAPTER XV

The next morning—­Tuesday, March 9th—­there was a rush for the London papers.  Every copy that reached the Polterham vendors was snapped up within a few minutes of it arrival.  People who had no right of membership ran ravening to the Literary Institute and the Constitutional Literary Society, and peered over the shoulders of legitimate readers, on such a day as this unrebuked.  Mr. Chown’s drapery establishment presented a strange spectacle.  For several hours it was thronged with sturdy Radicals eager to hear their eminent friend hold forth on the situation.  At eleven o’clock Mr. Chown fairly mounted a chair behind his counter, and delivered