Part 60 (1/2)
”No; I have never seen her since the day of the poacher's trial.”
”Oh! So she has gone into complete seclusion from all her friends?”
”That I can't answer for. I can only tell you my own experience.”
Lady Selina bethought herself of a great many more questions to ask, but somehow did not ask them. The talk fell upon politics, which lasted till the hostess gave the signal, and Lady Selina, gathering up her fan and gloves, swept from the room next after the Countess at the head of the table, while a host of elderly ladies, wives of ministers and the like, stood meekly by to let her pa.s.s.
As he sat down again, Wharton made the entry of the dinner at Alresford House, to which he had just promised himself, a little plainer. It was the second time in three weeks that Lady Selina had asked him, and he was well aware that several other men at this dinner-table, of about the same standing and prospects as himself, would be very glad to be in his place. Lady Selina, though she was unmarried, and not particularly handsome or particularly charming, was a personage--and knew it. As the mistress of her father's various fine houses, and the kinswoman of half the great families of England, she had ample social opportunities, and made, on the whole, clever use of them. She was not exactly popular, but in her day she had been extremely useful to many, and her invitations were prized. Wharton had been introduced to her at the beginning of this, his second session, had adopted with her the easy, aggressive, ”personal” manner--which, on the whole, was his natural manner towards women--and had found it immediately successful.
When he had replaced his pocket-book, he found himself approached by a man on his own side of the table, a member of Parliament like himself, with whom he was on moderately friendly terms.
”Your motion comes on next Friday, I think,” said the new-comer.
Wharton nodded.
”It'll be a beastly queer division,” said the other--”a precious lot of cross-voting.”
”That'll be the way with that kind of question for a good while to come--don't you think”--said Wharton, smiling, ”till we get a complete reorganisation of parties?”
As he leaned back in his chair, enjoying his cigarette, his half-shut eyes behind the curls of smoke made a good-humoured but contemptuous study of his companion.
Mr. Bateson was a young manufacturer, recently returned to Parliament, and newly married. He had an open, ruddy face, spoilt by an expression of chronic perplexity, which was almost fretfulness. Not that the countenance was without shrewdness; but it suggested that the man had ambitions far beyond his powers of performance, and already knew himself to be inadequate.
”Well, I shouldn't wonder if you get a considerable vote,” he resumed, after a pause; ”it's like women's suffrage. People will go on voting for this kind of thing, till there seems a chance of getting it. _Then_!”
”Ah, well!” said Wharton, easily, ”I see we shan't get _you_.”
”_I_!--vote for an eight-hours day, by local and trade option! In my opinion I might as well vote for striking the flag on the British Empire at once! It would be the death-knell of all our prosperity.”
Wharton's artistic ear disliked the mixture of metaphor, and he frowned slightly.
Mr. Bateson hurried on. He was already excited, and had fallen upon Wharton as a prey.
”And you really desire to make it _penal_ for us manufacturers--for me in my industry--in spite of all the chances and changes of the market, to work my men more than eight hours a day--_even_ if they wish it!”
”We must get our decision, our majority of the adult workers in any given district in favour of an eight-hours day,” said Wharton, blandly; ”then when they have voted for it, the local authority will put the Act in motion.”
”And my men--conceivably--may have voted in the minority, against any such tomfoolery; yet, when the vote is given, it will be a punishable offence for them, and me, to work overtime? You _actually_ mean that; how do you propose to punish us?”
”Well,” said Wharton, relighting his cigarette, ”that is a much debated point. Personally, I am in favour of imprisonment rather than fine.”
The other bounded on his chair.
”You would imprison me for working overtime--with _willing men!_”
Wharton eyed him with smiling composure. Two or three other men--an old general, the smart private secretary of a cabinet minister, and a well-known permanent official at the head of one of the great spending departments--who were sitting grouped at the end of the table a few feet away, stopped their conversation to listen.
”Except in cases of emergency, which are provided for under the Act,”
said Wharton. ”Yes, I should imprison you, with the greatest pleasure in life. Eight hours _plus_ overtime is what we are going to stop, _at all hazards!_”