To most men the difficulty of the transition from daily converse to important transactions is so difficult that they will postpone it to the very end of an interview. The Prime Minister was not of that kind. They had not got two hundred yards beyond that large arena near the Marble Arch wherein every Sunday the Saxon folk thresh out and determine for ever the antinomy of predestination and free will--not to mention other mysteries of the Christian religion,--when the Prime Minister had reminded Charles Repton of the absolute necessity of a new man on the Government bench in the House of Lords. Charles Repton heartily agreed, and for ten minutes gave his reasons. He hoped, he said in an iron sort of way, that he was talking sense, and that he was not meddling with things not his business. He was warmly encouraged to go on, and he minutely described the kind of man whom he thought was wanted. They had too many business men as it was, and there were too many men fresh from the House of Commons. The Government forces in the Upper House had come to be a sort of clique, half of them very intelligent, but now and then, especially in big debates, out of touch with their colleagues. Could not some man of real position, a man with a long established title, wealthy and thoroughly well known if only in a small world for some proficiency of his, be got to take an interest in the Government programme? A man like Pulborough, for instance? If Pulborough had had to earn his living he would have been the best bantam breeder alive. And then, look at his talents, why, he designed all the new work at Harberry himself, etc. And so forth. As they were crossing by the Wellington statue, the Prime Minister, in the uneasy intervals of dodging the petrol traffic, explained that that was not in his mind. He must have some one who had heard everything in the Cabinet for the last two years. “Repton,” he said ... (as they left the refuge pavement--a taxi-cab all but killed him).... “Repton, would you, have you thought of ....” Two gigantic motor-buses swerved together and the politicians were separated. The Prime Minister saw the Warden far ahead, a successful man, whole upon the further shore. The Prime Minister leapt in front of a bicycle, caught the kerb and ended his sentence “... a peerage yourself?” They had come through all the perils of that space and were walking quietly down Constitution Hill; Dolly could develop his thought more freely, and in the most natural way in the world he put it that they could not do without Charles Repton. He was very careful not to force the position. Charles Repton was absolutely essential: they must have him or they must have nobody. An Egyptian smile, a smile of granite, could be guessed rather than seen upon Charles Repton’s firm lips. “Would you propose that I should be Master of the Horse?” he said.