It was eight o'clock in the evening of the 5th of April, 1880, and
the Travellers' Club was full to overflowing. Men who were just
sitting down to dinner got up from their tables, and joined the
excited concourse in the hall. The General Election which terminated
Lord Beaconsfield's reign was nearing its close, and the issue
was scarcely in doubt; but at this moment the decisive event of
the campaign was announced. Members, as they eagerly scanned the
tape, saw that Gladstone was returned for Midlothian; and, as they
passed, the news to the expectant crowd behind them, there arose
a tumult of excited voices.

"I told you how it would be!" "Well, I've lost my money." "I could
not have believed that Scotsmen would be such fools." "I'm awfully
sorry for Dalkeith." "Why couldn't that old windbag have stuck
to Greenwich?" "I blame Rosebery for getting him down." "Well,
I suppose we're in for another Gladstone Premiership." "Oh, no
fear. The Queen won't speak to him." "No, Hartington's the man,
and, as an old Whig, I'm glad of it." "Perhaps Gladstone will take
the Exchequer." "What! serve under Hartington? You don't know the
old gentleman's pride if you expect that;" and so on and so forth,
a chorus of excited and bewildering exclamations. Amid all the
hurly-burly, one figure in the throng seemed quite unmoved, and
its immobility attracted the notice of the throng. "Well, really,
Vaughan, I should have thought that even you would have felt excited
about this. I know you don't care much about politics in a general
way, but this is something out of the common. The Duke of Buccleuch
beaten on his own ground, and Gladstone heading straight for the
Premiership! Isn't that enough to quicken your pulse?"