call himself by a great name before the world, and then to be
something infinitely less than that name, would be to him a
degradation. But though he felt fixed as to that, he was by no
means assured as to that other point, which to most men firm in
their resolves as he was, and backed up as he had been by the
confidence of others, would be cause of small hesitation. He did
doubt his ability to fill that place which it would now be his
duty to occupy. He more than doubted. He told himself again and
again that there was wanting to him a certain noble capacity for
commanding support and homage from other men. With things and
facts he could deal, but human beings had not opened themselves
to him. But now it was too late! And yet,--as he said to his
wife,--to fail would break his heart! No ambition had prompted
him. He was sure of himself there. One only consideration had
forced him into this great danger, and that had been the
assurance of others that it was his manifest duty to encounter
it. And how there was clearly no escape,--no escape compatible
with that clean-handed truth from which it was not possible for
him to swerve. He might create difficulties in order that
through them a way might still be opened to him of restoring to
the Queen the commission which had been entrusted to him. He
might insist on this or that impossible concession. But the
memory of escape such as that would break his heart as surely as
the failure.

When the Duke was announced, he rose to greet his old friend
almost with fervour. 'It is a shame,' he said, 'to bring you out
so late. I ought to have gone to you.'

'Not at all. It is always the rule in these cases that the man