“I ought to go back if it’s really important,” he said. “And Lady Frances is a young lady who doesn’t like being disappointed.” “Please yourself,” said Aunt Emma shortly. “But take care, that’s all!” He found news, on his return after this very brief visit, in a letter at the emptied rooms in Page’s Walk that at once encouraged him and gave him perturbation. The white-haired Labour Member wrote in cautious terms that a certain bye-election in a London constituency was imminent. It had been decided to run a Labour candidate; the other two sides were pretty evenly matched, and if the game were played well, and played out, there was good chance of the Labour man making a fair show; there was another chance, less probable, but possible, that the Liberal candidate, if he found he had no prospect of winning, might retire before the election. The point was (wrote the Labour M.P.), would Erb consent to stand if he were selected? All the expenses would be paid, and all the help that the party could give would be willingly afforded. It would be better to put up a man like Erb, who had never before submitted to the suffrages of a constituency, than a man who had elsewhere undergone the experience of rejection. A reply to the House of Commons would oblige, and, meanwhile, this communication was to be regarded as strictly private. “He hasn’t heard,” said Erb thoughtfully, “of my come down.” There were many courses, Erb felt, to pursue which were not straightforward, but only one that was honest. He went into a stationer’s in Willow Walk, and, borrowing pen and ink, and purchasing paper and envelope, wrote a frank letter, giving all the necessary details of recent events, and just caught the five-thirty post as the pillar box was being deprived of its contents. Then he made his way on foot—a desperate spirit of economy possessing him—to Eaton Square. “Ages since I saw you,” said Mr. Danks the footman, receiving him on the area steps with something like enthusiasm, “but I’ve heard of you over and over again.” “How are you getting on with your aitches?” asked Erb. “Very complimentary remarks, too,” said Mr. Danks, ignoring the inquiry. “My cousin Rosie seems to think of nobody else, so far as I can judge. I’d no idea you were a favourite with the fair sex!” “Ah!” remarked Erb. “It’s brain that tells in the long run.” “If I thought there was anything in that remark,” said the footman, interested, “I’d go in for literature or something of the kind myself. I’m expecting to be thrown over by a young lady in Lowndes Square by every post, and—but I’m keeping you waiting.” “I noticed that,” said Erb.