“You, Stanhope?” says Bertram, in extreme surprise.
“Myself,” replies the new-comer.
He is Sir Henry Stanhope, the Home Secretary of the actual Government. Bertram was his fag at Eton, and a good deal of cordial feeling has always existed between them, despite the vast and irreconcilable difference of their political and social opinions. Sir Henry regards him as a maniac, but an interesting and lovable maniac. Bertram regards him in return as a hopeless Philistine, but a Philistine who means well and has good points, and who is, in the exercise of his horrible office, admirably conscientious. His conscientiousness has not, however, prevented him from allowing to go to the gallows a victim of prejudice who killed his wife because he was tired of seeing her red hair—a misguided æsthete for whose release Bertram pleaded in vain. Since the time of this unfortunate affair there has been some chillness in the relations of Stanhope and himself.
The Philistine minister looks at the disorder of the chamber with some surprise, and seats himself unbidden.
“My dear Bertram,” he says, rather distantly, “old acquaintance should not be forgot. Its memories bring me here to-day.”
“Thanks,” says Bertram, equally coldly; and looks an interrogation.
Sir Henry coughs.
“You have a good many protégés amongst the lower classes, I think?”
“I deny that there is a lower class.”
“I know you do. But let us for the moment use the language of a benighted and unkind world. Your peculiar views of duty have led you into forming these associations which cannot be agreeable to your taste. But did it not occur to you that they might be compromising as well as—as rather unrefined?”