He drew a deep breath. And he put the temptation from him. “I am much obliged to his lordship,” he said quietly. “But I cannot accept his offer.”
“Not accept it?” Mr. Pybus cried. “Mr. Vaughan! You don’t mean it, sir! You don’t mean it! It’s a safe seat! It’s in your own hands, I tell you! And after last night! Besides, it is not as if you had not declared yourself.”
“I cannot accept it,” Vaughan repeated coldly. “I am obliged to Lord Lansdowne for his kind thought of me. I beg you to convey my thanks to him. But I cannot—in the position I occupy—accept the offer.”
Mr. Pybus stared. Was it possible that the scene at the Vermuyden dinner had been a ruse? A piece of play-acting to gain his secrets? If so—he was undone! “But,” he quavered with an unhappy eye, “you are in favour of the Bill, Mr. Vaughan?”
“I am.
“And—and of Reform generally, I understand?”
“Certainly.”
“Then—I don’t understand? Why do you refuse?”
Vaughan raised his head and looked at him with a movement which would have reminded Isaac White of Sir Robert. “That is my business,” he said.
“But you see,” Mr. Pybus remonstrated timidly—he was rather a crestfallen bird by this time—“I confess I was never more surprised in my life! Never! You see I’ve told you all our secrets.”