"I’ve got the three hours to myself," she said; "more, even, because he’s dining out. What a fool I was to say I’d go to father. And yet I don’t know, it will be better to be away in case either of the secretaries comes back and discovers the loss before to-morrow morning. I shall have to send the telegram to Mr. Brand myself; I can tell Felice that I’m going to the Park for a minute or two. Good Heavens, how white I am! I hope to goodness she won’t guess there’s anything wrong." "A most uncomfortable place," said Lady Wereminster. "Have you got any room at all, Evelyn?" She looked icily in the direction of the lady at Mrs. Brand’s right hand. "There’s only one thing in the world that would ever make me in favour of franchise for women, and that is, that I should immediately use my power to press the passing of a Bill that would enable us, as spectators, to see and hear and to be seen and heard in the House of Commons. Grilles belong to the Middle Ages, and as nobody is even middle-aged now-a-days, one resents their existence." "How full it is already," said Evelyn; "every seat taken. Look at the hats, and just see the Strangers’ Gallery and the Speaker’s!" "Everybody flocks to a tussle like this," said Lady Wereminster, disposing of her skirts as comfortably as the limited space would allow. "Let us see what’s to be the first question of the evening? These twopenny-halfpenny matters they’re discussing now don’t count. No, I absolutely refuse to keep quiet, Evelyn. Nothing important’s going on. If the wife of the Member for East Mumsted—the mere prefix stamps the place as vulgar and suburban—is anxious to hear her husband stammering trivialities upon a matter which interests nobody except himself, she can give him unlimited scope for boredom in his own home circle. Give me the Agenda again, or whatever they call it, Evelyn. Good Heavens! we’ve got at least three-quarters of an hour of this before the business of the evening comes on. Who’s that at the door?—Mr. Beadon, Mrs. Farquharson and Mr. Calvert. Fancy Dora honouring her husband by coming! Let’s go and speak to them outside, shall we? I hope your husband’s in vein to-night, Mrs. Farquharson." "Well, we’re in for a stormy evening," said Beadon cheerfully, piloting Lady Wereminster to a place of comparative seclusion. "Farquharson hasn’t turned up yet even. I never saw such a man, he thrives on criticism. He knows as well as I that there is a regular organized claque of Irish Members here to-night ready to shriek him down, ’spoiling for a row,’ as we used to say at Eton."