Part 33 (1/2)

She looked at him out of her clear eyes, and shook an indulgent head.

”I know,” said he, meeting her glance shrewdly. ”He has got to use his detaining faculty with discretion. I've made a study of the little ways of conquerors. Ali! Dearest lady!” he burst out suddenly, in his impetuous way, ”I'm talking nonsense; but I'm so uncannily happy!”

”It does me good to look at you,” she said.

CHAPTER XVII

PAUL leaned back in his leather writing chair, smoking a cigarette and focussing the electioneering situation. Beside a sheet of foolscap on which he had been jotting down notes lay in neat piles the typewritten Report of the Forlorn Widows' Fund, the account book and the banker's pa.s.s book. He had sat up till three o'clock in the morning preparing for his Princess. Nothing now remained but the formal ”examined and found correct” report of the auditors. For the moment the Forlorn Widows stood leagues away from Paul's thoughts. He had pa.s.sed a strenuous day at Hickney Heath, lunching in the committee room on sandwiches and whisky and soda obtained from the nearest tavern, talking, inventing, dictating, writing, playing upon dull minds the flashes of his organizing genius. His committee was held up for the while by a dark rift in the Radical camp. They had not yet chosen their man. Nothing was known, save that a certain John Questerhayes, K. C., an eminent Chancery barrister, who had of late made himself conspicuous in the const.i.tuency, had been turned down on the ground that he was not sufficiently progressive. Now for comfort to the Radical the term ”Progressive” licks the blessed word Mesopotamia into a c.o.c.ked hat.

Under the Progressive's sad-coloured cloak he need not wear the red tie of the socialist. Apparently Mr. Questerhayes objected to the sad-coloured cloak, the mantle of Elijah, M. P., the late member for Hickney Heath. ”Wanted: an Elisha,” seemed to be the cry of the Radical Committee.

Paul leaned back, his elbows on the arms of his chair, his finger tips together, a cigarette between his lips, lost in thought. The early November twilight deepened in the room. He was to address a meeting that night. In order to get ready for his speech he had not allowed himself to be detained, and had come home early. His speech had been prepared; but the Radical delay was a new factor of which he might take triumphant advantage. Hence the pencil notes on the sheet of foolscap, before him.

A man-servant came in, turned on the electric light, pulled the curtains together and saw to the fire.

”Tea's in the drawing-room, sir.”

”Bring me some here in a breakfast cup--nothing to eat,” said Paul.

Even his dearest lady could not help him in his meditated attack on the enemy whom the Lord was delivering into his hands.

The man-servant went away. Presently Paul heard him reenter the room; the door was at his back. He threw out an impatient hand behind him.

”Put it down anywhere, Wilton, I'll have it when I want it.”

”I beg pardon, sir,” said the man, coming forward, ”but it's not the tea. There's a gentleman and a lady and another person would like to see you. I said that you were busy, sir, but--”

He put the silver salver, with its card, in front of Paul. Printed on the card was, ”Mr. Silas Finn.” In pencil was written: ”Miss Seddon, Mr. William Simmons.”

Paul looked at the card in some bewilderment. What in the name of politics or friends.h.i.+p were they doing in Portland Place? Not to receive them, however, was unthinkable.

”Show them in,” said he.

Silas Finn, Jane and Barney Bill! It was odd. He laughed and took out his watch. Yes, he could easily give them half an hour or so. But why had they come? He had found time to call once at the house in Hickney Heath since his return to town, and then he had seen Jane and Silas Finn together and they had talked, as far as he could remember, of the Disestablishment of the Anglican Church and the elevating influence of landscape painting on the human soul. Why had they come? It could not be to offer their services during the election, for Silas Finn in politics was a fanatical enemy. The visit stirred a lively curiosity.

They entered: Mr. Finn in his usual black with many-coloured tie and diamond ring, looking more mournfully grave than ever; Jane wearing an expression half of anxiety and half of defiance; Barney Bill, very uncomfortable in his well-preserved best suit, very restless and nervous. They gave the impression of a deputation coming to announce the death of a near relative. Paul received them cordially. But why in the world, thought he, were they all so solemn? He pushed forward chairs.

”I got your postcard, Bill. Thanks so much for it.”

Bill grunted and embraced his hard felt hat.

”I ought to have written to you,” said Jane--”but---”

”She felt restrained by her duty towards me,” said Mr. Finn. ”I hope you did not think it was discourteous on her part.”

”My dear sir,” Paul laughed, seating himself in his writing chair, which he twisted away from the table, ”Jane and I are too old friends for that. In her heart I know she wishes me luck. And I hope you do too, Mr. Finn,” he added pleasantly--”although I know you're on the other side.”

”I'm afraid my principles will not allow me to wish you luck in this election, Mr. Savelli.”

”Well, well,” said Paul. ”It doesn't matter. If you vote against me I'll not bear malice.”