“Well, I’ll tell you,” said Repton. “I’ve put exactly the same sum aside every year for fifteen years, whether we’ve been in office or out of it. Not a large sum, only five hundred pounds. Pottle will tell you.” The Premier made such a movement with his head as showed that he did not care. “Only five hundred pounds but exactly five hundred pounds,” continued Repton firmly. “Now Pottle must understand quite clearly that that subscription will neither be increased nor diminished.” He spoke as men speak in a shop, and in a shop of which they have the whip hand. “That’s between you and Pottle,” said the Prime Minister in the tone of one who doesn’t want to go on with the subject. “Yes,” said Repton, looking straight in front of him, “it _has_ got to be understood quite clearly. I’ve made it a standing order. Pottle’s never pestered me, but he _can_ pester like the deuce.... And I’ve absolutely made up my mind.” “Of course, of course,” said the Prime Minister. “I think it’s wise,” he went on,--“It isn’t my business, but I do think it wise to keep in touch with the Central Office. But it’s between you and Pottle.” There was another long silence as they went down Great George Street. “That’s all,” said Repton, opposite the Pugin fountain. The two men walked on. The statues of great men long dead looked down upon them; those statues were unused to such conversations. One of the statues must have thought Charles Repton a tactless fellow, but Charles Repton had calculated everything, even to his chances of life and to the number of active years that probably lay before him. And nothing would have more offended or disturbed him than any ambiguity upon the business side of the transaction. They parted, one for the Court of Dowry, the other for Downing Street, and the affair was settled. * * * * * That afternoon the Prime Minister asked Demaine to come and have a cup of tea. He said he would rather it was in his own room; he took Demaine’s arm and led him round. “Have you anything on to-night, Dimmy?” he said. Dimmy thought. “I don’t know,” he answered after a long examination of possible engagements. “Well, you’ve got to be here for the division anyhow.” “Oh yes,” said Dimmy. His high record of divisions was the sheet anchor of his soul: he had sat up all night sixteen times. “Well,” said the Prime Minister hesitating, as though after all he didn’t want to drink a cup of tea, “you might see me then ... no, come along now.” And as they drank their tea he told his companion that there was to be a change in the Cabinet. “Now,” he said, “I want to leave you perfectly free.” He seemed to be suffering a little as he said it, but he went on tenaciously: “I want to leave you perfectly free; ... but of course you know your name has been put before me?” “I don’t know,” began Demaine.