Mr. Stark, with an air of solemnity not wholly jocose, took his friend's arm and led him to a corner of the room, where, resting against a chair-back, was a small ill-framed oil painting. "What have you to say to that?" "The ugliest thing I've seen for a long time." "But--but--" the solicitor stammered, with indignant eagerness--"but do know whose it is?" The picture represented a bit of country road, with a dung-heap, a duck-pond, a pig asleep, and some barn-door fowls. "I know whose you _think_ it is," replied Glazzard, coldly. His face still had an unhealthy pallor, and his eyes looked as if they had but just opened after the oppression of nightmare. "But it isn't." "Come, come, Glazzard! you are too dictatorial, my boy." Mr. Stark kept turning a heavy ring upon his finger, showing in face and tone that the connoisseur's dogmatism troubled him more than he wished to have it thought. "Winterbottom warrants it," he added, with a triumphant jerk of his plump body. "Then Winterbottom is either cheating or cheated. That is no Morland; take my word for it. Was that all you wanted me for?" Mr. Stark's good-nature was severely tried. Mental suffering had made Glazzard worse than impolite; his familiar tone of authority on questions of art had become too frankly contemptuous. "You're out of sorts this morning," conjectured his legal friend. "Let Morland be for the present. I had another reason for asking you to call, but don't stay unless you like." Glazzard looked round the office. "Well?" he asked, more gently. "Quarrier tells me you are going down to Polterham. Any special reason?" "Yes. But I can't talk about it." "I was down there myself last Sunday. I talked politics with the local wiseacres, and--do you know, it has made me think of you ever since?" "How so?" Mr. Stark consulted his watch. "I'm at leisure for just nineteen minutes. If you care to sit down, I have an idea I should like to put before you." The visitor seated himself and crossed his legs. His countenance gave small promise of attention. "You know," resumed Mr. Stark, leaning forward and twiddling his thumbs, "that they're hoping to get rid of Welwyn-Baker at the next election?" "What of that?" "Toby Liversedge talks of coming forward--but _that_ won't do." "Probably not." The solicitor bent still more and tapped his friend's knee. "Glazzard, here is your moment. Here is your chance of getting what you want. Liversedge is reluctant to stand; I know that for certain. To a more promising man he'll yield with pleasure.--St! st! listen to me!--you are that man. Go down; see Toby; see the wiseacres and wire-pullers; get your name in vogue! It's cut out for you. Act now, or never again pretend that you want a chance." A smile of disdain settled upon Glazzard's lips, but his eyes had lost their vacancy. "On the Radical side?" he asked, mockingly. "For Manchester and Brummagem?"