Palmet obeyed her commands with the liveliest exhibition of his peculiar faculty: Cecilia, rejoining them, seemed to hear Nevil himself in his emphatic political mood. “Because the Whigs are defunct! They had no root in the people! Whig is the name of a tribe that was! You have Tory, Liberal, and Radical. There is no place for Whig. He is played out.” “Who has been putting that nonsense into your head?” Mr. Lespel retorted. “Go shooting, go shooting!” Shots were heard in the woods. Palmet pricked up his ears; but he was taken out riding to act cavalier to Mrs. Devereux and Miss Halkett. Cecilia corrected his enthusiasm with the situation. “No flatteries to-day. There are hours when women feel their insignificance and helplessness. I begin to fear for Mr. Austin; and I find I can do nothing to aid him. My hands are tied. And yet I know I could win voters if only it were permissible for me to go and speak to them.” “Win them!” cried Palmet, imagining the alacrity of men’s votes to be won by her. He recommended a gallop for the chasing away of melancholy, and as they were on the Bevisham high road, which was bordered by strips of turf and heath, a few good stretches brought them on the fir-heights, commanding views of the town and broad water. “No, I cannot enjoy it,” Cecilia said to Mrs. Devereux; “I don’t mind the grey light; cloud and water, and halftones of colour, are homely English and pleasant, and that opal where the sun should be has a suggestiveness richer than sunlight. I’m quite northern enough to understand it; but with me it must be either peace or strife, and that Election down there destroys my chance of peace. I never could mix reverie with excitement; the battle must be over first, and the dead buried. Can you?” Mrs. Devereux answered: “Excitement? I am not sure that I know what it is. An Election does not excite me.” “There’s Nevil Beauchamp himself!” Palmet sang out, and the ladies discerned Beauchamp under a fir-tree, down by the road, not alone. A man, increasing in length like a telescope gradually reaching its end for observation, and coming to the height of a landmark, as if raised by ropes, was rising from the ground beside him. “Shall we trot on, Miss Halkett?” Cecilia said, “No.” “Now I see a third fellow,” said Palmet. “It’s the other fellow, the Denham-Shrapnel-Radical meeting... Lydiard’s his name: writes books!” “We may as well ride on,” Mrs. Devereux remarked, and her horse fretted singularly. Beauchamp perceived them, and lifted his hat. Palmet made demonstrations for the ladies. Still neither party moved nearer. After some waiting, Cecilia proposed to turn back. Mrs. Devereux looked into her eyes. “I’ll take the lead,” she said, and started forward, pursued by Palmet. Cecilia followed at a sullen canter.