As until this moment I was in perfect ignorance of the Adam-and-Eve-like simplicity in which the private economy of Mr. Blake’s household was conducted, I would have gladly retired from what I found to be a mutual territory of dressing-room had not Mr. Blake’s injunctions been issued somewhat like an order to remain. “It’s only a letter, sir,” said I, stuttering, “from my uncle about the election. He says that as his majority is now certain, he should feel better pleased in going to the poll with all the family, you know, sir, along with him. He wishes me just to sound your intentions,--to make out how you feel disposed towards him; and--and, faith, as I am but a poor diplomatist, I thought the best way was to come straight to the point and tell you so.” “I perceive,” said Mr. Blake, giving his chin at the moment an awful gash with the razor,--“I perceive; go on.” “Well, sir, I have little more to say. My uncle knows what influence you have in Scariff, and expects you’ll do what you can there.” “Anything more?” said Blake, with a very dry and quizzical expression I didn’t half like,--“anything more?” “Oh, yes; you are to write a line to old Mallock.” “I understand; about Coolnamuck, isn’t it?” “Exactly; I believe that’s all.” “Well, now, Charley, you may go down-stairs, and we’ll talk it over after dinner.” “Yes, Charley dear, go down, for I’m going to draw on my stockings,” said the fair Mrs. Blake, with a look of very modest consciousness. When I had left the room I couldn’t help muttering a “Thank God!” for the success of a mission I more than once feared for, and hastened to despatch a note to my uncle, assuring him of the Blake interest, and adding that for propriety’s sake I should defer my departure for a day or two longer.