Maraton's expression lightened, a gleam of humour twinkled in his eyes. "After all," he murmured, "it would have been almost Gilbertian if I had been returned to Parliament with the Labour vote against me! . . . Aaron, go and ring up Peter Dale. I want this matter cleared up. Ask him when we can meet." Aaron left the room upon his errand. Maraton moved restlessly about the room for a moment or two. He mixed himself a drink at the sideboard, and lit a cigarette. Julia's eyes followed him all the time. "So you are a Member of Parliament," she said at last. "I hope you approve?" he queried. Julia did not answer him at once. He looked across at her from the depth of the easy chair into which he had thrown himself. She was wearing a plain black dress, buttoned to her throat and unrelieved even by a linen collar or any touch of white. She was pale, and her eyes seemed all the more beautiful for the faint violet lines beneath them. "Parliament has been the grave of so many men's careers," Maraton continued. "I am fully warned. Nothing of the sort is going to happen to me. I wouldn't have gone in now but for Foley. It's only fair. It helps him, and he's sticking to his pledges like a man." "When do you go to Sheffield?" she asked. "Next Wednesday. No postponements." Julia nodded. "Mr. Elgood has been here this afternoon," she said, "from Sheffield. He is the secretary of the Union, you know. He is coming again to-morrow morning. He wants to talk to you about the boys' age limit." "Any letters of consequence?" Julia pointed a little disdainfully to a pile upon the table. "All invitations," she observed coldly. "Perhaps you had better look them through." Maraton shook his head. "They are no use to me," he declared, "unless they're political?" He rose and stood by Julia's side, glancing idly through the heap of papers by the side of her machine. "You seem to have found plenty to do, anyway," he remarked. "There was a great deal," she assured him. "I think I have collected all the possible information you can need on the steel works of Sheffield." "Haven't been overworking, I hope?" She laughed at him softly. Her parted lips seemed somehow to lighten her face. "This doesn't quite compare with nine hours a day over a sewing machine, with a hundred other girls packed into a small room," she reminded him. "No, I haven't been overworking. I almost wished, an hour ago, that I could find something more to do." "Why didn't you go out?" "To-morrow night is Guild night," she said. "I go out then to talk to my girls. Miss Stevens is coming from the Lyceum Club to lecture to us on Woman's Suffrage." "Do you want a vote?" he asked. "If it comes,"' she replied. "It isn't worth worrying about. I like my girls, though, to be taught to think."