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 very quietly, but with sternness in her voice and face. ‘I must say, Lady Humnoddie, that I should not like to have borne your part in this matter. I should almost feel myself—blood-guilty.’

It was a fault of our heroine’s that when her feelings were stirred about sociology or politics, she was apt to give vent to them, without pausing to consider the weight of the projectile. Lady Humnoddie turned pale and was silent, and though too good-natured to resent what was said to her, she did not quite recover her spirits until the evening, after dinner. Mr Bristley himself was startled by his niece’s observation, but felt its justice too much to remonstrate; he came to the rescue, however, as best he could.

‘The old story, my lord,’ he said, forcing a laugh. ‘It happened to your predecessor, the very first Prime Minister. The woman whom thou gavest me, she gave me of the apple of Discord, and I did eat. It can’t be undone now, any more than then, and it’s no use crying over—to be practical, what do you think of the outlook at present?’

‘Well,’ he replied, ‘the worst of the crisis will soon be over, let us hope. The indemnity is paid, the French army is quitting Ireland, which is handed over to the Americans, and perhaps the clouds of foreign war are passing away for good; but the Revolution is upon us in all its force, and our national idols, one after another, are toppling down and going under. My order is threatened with political and, it may be, social extinction; yours, too, Mr Bristley—’

‘Let it go, Lord Humnoddie, let it go; don’t spare it for my sake. By an Established Church the State is saddled with business wherewith it has no concern, while it is made to neglect things of importance within its rightful province. The days of State patronage and control of religion are numbered: no country will tolerate it much longer. If we sky-pilots cannot keep our heads above