She told him of the letters. “And you thought it was no business of mine?” he said. “You saw no reason in sending for me? Instinct, eh! Well, thank God for instinct then. Sell Hepplestall’s! By God, they won’t. Who to? To a damned syndicate, that offers through a London accountant? Londoners! outsiders! Know-nothing grab-alls that have the same idea of Trades Unions as they have of Ireland. There’s been too much of this selling of Lancashire to pirates, and happen Labor’s been dull about it, and all. But Hepplestall’s. I didn’t think they’d go for Hepplestall’s. That’s big business, if you like; that’s swallowing the camel but they’re not to do it, Mary, and if you want to know who’ll stop them, I will.” He was racing up and down her room, not like a caged tiger which only paces, but like an angry man who tries to move his legs in time with rushing thought. “Ugh! you don’t know what you’ve done, letting this cat out of the bag. I’ll be careful for your sake, but I tell you I’m tempted to be careless. Would you like to know what they called me in the _Times_ the other day? An Elder Statesman of the Labor Party. That means I’ve gone to sleep, with toothless jaws that couldn’t bite a millionaire if I caught his hand in my pocket. It means I’m a harmless fossil and you can bet your young life the bright lads of the advanced movement that think Tom Bradshaw lives by selling passes are on to that damned phrase. If I go down to Staithley and call the young crowd together and tell them this, I could blossom into an idol of the lads. They’re ready for any lead, but it ’ud let hell loose in Lancashire and I’ll not do it if I can find another way. I’ll be an elder statesman, but if the Hepplestalls don’t like my British statesmanship, by God, I’ll give ’em Russian. I’ll show them there’s to be an end of this buying and selling Labor like cattle.” Mary sat overwhelmed by the spate she had provoked; she hadn’t dreamed that she would so strangely touch him on the raw, and he, too, sat, shaken, hiding his face in his hands on her dressing-table. Presently he looked up, and she saw that the storm had passed. “I’m an old fool,” he said, “ranting like a boy. But I’m upset. I didn’t think it of the Hepplestalls. This lad of yours... what would Sir Philip have thought of him?” She was fighting Rupert, and Tom Bradshaw was the ally she had called to help her, but she was stung to seek defense for him. “Sir Philip did not go through the war, as Rupert did,” she said. “All that’s the matter with Rupert is that he is still--still rather demobilized.” “Post-war,” groaned Tom. “I know. It’s the word for everything that’s deteriorated: but Hepplestall’s shan’t go post-war.”