already formed habits and pursuits of their own, which they cannot
surrender even to friendship. Colonel Danvers was not at home--they
believed he was at his club, of which Ernest also was a member. Thither
Maltravers bent his way. On arriving, he found that Danvers had been at
the club an hour ago, and left word that he should shortly return.
Maltravers entered and quietly sat down. The room was full of its daily
loungers; but he did not shrink from, he did not even heed, the crowd.
He felt not the desire of solitude--there was solitude enough within
him. Several distinguished public men were there, grouped around the
fire, and many of the hangers-on and satellites of political life; they
were talking with eagerness and animation, for it was a season of great
party conflict. Strange as it may seem, though Maltravers was then
scarcely sensible of their conversation, it all came back vividly and
faithfully on him afterwards, in the first hours of reflection on his
own future plans, and served to deepen and consolidate his disgust of
the world. They were discussing the character of a great statesman
whom, warmed but by the loftiest and purest motives, they were unable to
understand. Their gross suspicions, their coarse jealousies, their
calculations of patriotism by place, all that strips the varnish from
the face of that fair harlot--Political Ambition--sank like caustic into
his spirit. A gentleman seeing him sit silent, with his hat over his
moody brows, civilly extended to him the paper he was reading.

"It is the second edition; you will find the last French express."

"Thank yon," said Maltravers; and the civil man started as he heard the
brief answer; there was something so inexpressibly prostrate and
broken-spirited in the voice that uttered it.

Maltravers's eyes fell mechanically on the columns, and caught his own