Perhaps, after all, then he had found his
life's work here. If so he need surely regret no longer his lost
political opportunities. Yet in his heart he knew that it had been from
the House of Commons he had meant to force home his schemes. To work
outside had always seemed to him to be labouring under a disadvantage,
to be missing the true and best opportunity of impressing upon the
law-makers of the country their true responsibilities. But of that
there was no longer any hope. Of the House of Lords he thought only
with a cold shiver. No, political life was denied to him. He must do
his best for the furtherance of his work outside.
He fell asleep to awake in the cold grey of the morning, stiff and
cramped, and cold to the bone. Stamping up and down the room in a
vigorous attempt to restore his lost circulation, he noticed as he
passed the corner of the table a still unopened letter addressed to him
in a familiar handwriting. He took it over to the window, and, glancing
at the faintly-sketched coronet on time back, turned it over and broke
the seal.
"ST. JAMES'S HOUSE, LONDON.
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