Mrs. G. (_with fine scorn_). Peter doesn't waste his words on Parliament. He goes direct to the people--addressing meetings up and down the country. (_Glowing with pride._) They fight to get him. Pity is he can't split himself in bits and be in six places at once. Two guineas a speech he gets--and expenses,--more sometimes. That's what they think of him, Miss Mottram. That's my son. (_Pointing to a heading in the hook._) Silver-tongued Garside. That's what they call him. Glad. Yes, I see. (_She turns a page._) Mrs. G. (_looking, bending round Gladys_). Oh, no, not that. I oughtn't to have pasted that in. It's an attack on him in one of our own papers. They call him something he didn't like. Glad, (_reading_). Platitudinous Peter. Mrs. G. It's all their spite. Glad. I suppose all politicians make enemies. Mrs. G. Oh, he's not afraid of his real enemies. The capitalists can call him what they like. They do, too, and the more the better, Peter says. But that's different. Mean things, attacking their own side. Glad, (_absently_). Yes. (_Putting book down._) And this is where he prepares his speeches. (_Crossing to table._) Mrs. G. (_rising with book and crossing, replacing it on table_). Yes. Those are his books. [_Gladys looks at titles._ Glad. Why, this row's all dictionaries. Mrs. G. Peter says people like long words. He writes his article at that desk. Peter's printed in the paper every week. Glad. He's kept busy. Mrs. G. And he keeps me busy looking after him. Glad, (_sitting in the revolving chair and facing Mrs. Garside, standing centre_). Have you no help? Mrs. G. Me? Nay. I couldn't abide the thought of a strange woman doing _'_owt for Peter. I've cared for him all his life, and I'll go on caring for him until he's put another woman in my place. Peter's wife won't be of my class. It'll be my duty then to keep myself out of her sight, and a hard job I'll find it, too, but I was never one to shirk. Glad. Didn't I hear something about a girl in Midland-ton, who---- Mrs. G. (_with conviction_). Don't you believe it, miss. She wasn't fit to clean his boots. Glad. And of course he's all London to choose from now. Mrs. G. London! He'll never wed a Londoner. Glad. No? Mrs. G. He's in love with a Midlandton young lady. Calls her his inspiration and I don't know what. But I tell you this, miss, I don't care who, she is, she'll be doing well for herself when she marries my Peter. Glad. You think she will marry him, then? Mrs. G. I'd like to see the woman who'd refuse him when he asks her. [_Re-enter, left, Fred, and Peter. Fred, addressing Peter._ Fred. Yes. I'll come back. I say, Garside, before I go, congratters, and all that sort of thing, you know. Peter (_the pair have emerged very friendly_). Congratulations? Fred. (_sweeping his hat round_). On all this. Peter (_still puzzled_). This? Fred. This jolly little place, and so on. Peter. Oh, that's nothing. Part of the game, my boy.