The two men looked hard at each other. There was not even a clock in the room to break the silence. At last the statesman spoke.
"Why?" he asked.
His visitor sank back in his chair relieved. He had put all his hopes in the other's common-sense.
It had never failed Mr. Labouchere, and now it promised not to fail Andrew.
"I am anxious to explain that," the young man said glibly. "If you can look at yourself with the same eyes with which you see other people, it won't take long. Make a looking-glass of me, and it is done.
"You have now reached a high position in the worlds of politics and literature, to which you have cut your way unaided.
"You are a great satirist, combining instruction with amusement, a sort of comic Carlyle.
"You hate shams so much that if man had been constructed for it I dare say you would kick at yourself.
"You have your enemies, but the very persons who blunt their weapons on you do you the honour of sharpening them on 'Truth.' In short, you have reached the summit of your fame, and you are too keen a man of the world not to know that fame is a touch-and-go thing."
Andrew paused.