to the things of this world. Since
Mr Lyon had been in Malthouse Yard there had been far too much mixing up of
politics with religion; but, at any rate, these ladies had never yet been to
hear speechifying in the market-place, and they were not going to begin that
practice.
    Esther, however, had heard some of her feminine acquaintances say that they
intended to sit at the druggist's upper window, and she was inclined to ask her
father if he could think of a suitable place where she also might see and hear.
Two inconsistent motives urged her. She knew that Felix cared earnestly for all
public questions, and she supposed that he held it one of her deficiencies not
to care about them: well, she would try to learn the secret of this ardour,
which was so strong in him that it animated what she thought the dullest form of
life. She was not too stupid to find it out. But this self-correcting motive was
presently displaced by a motive of a different sort. It had been a pleasant
variety in her monotonous days to see a man like Harold Transome, with a
distinguished appearance and polished manners, and she would like to see him
again: he suggested to her that brighter and more luxurious life on which her
imagination dwelt without the painful effort it required to conceive the mental
condition which would place her in complete sympathy with Felix Holt. It was
this less unaccustomed prompting of which she was chiefly conscious when she
awaited her father's coming down to breakfast. Why, indeed, should she trouble
herself so much about Felix?
    Mr Lyon, more serene now that he had unbosomed his anxieties and obtained a
promise of help, was already swimming so happily in the deep water of polemics
in expectation of Philip Debarry's answer to his challenge, that, in the
occupation of making a few notes lest certain felicitous inspirations should be
wasted, he had forgotten to come down to breakfast. Esther, suspecting his
abstraction, went up to his study, and found him at his desk looking up with
wonder at her interruption.
    »Come, father, you have forgotten your breakfast.«
    »It is true, child; I will come,« he said, lingering to make some final
strokes.
    »O you naughty father!« said Esther, as he got up from his chair, »your
coat-collar is twisted, your waistcoat is buttoned all wrong, and you have not
brushed your hair. Sit down and let me brush it again as I did yesterday.«
    He sat down obediently, while Esther