“I am sure of preserving my popularity,” he said, “while I have a cask in the cellar, and a few spare sixpences in my pocket. The public spirit of my parishioners asks for nothing but money and beer. Before I went to that wearisome meeting, I told my housekeeper that I was going to make a speech about reform. She didn’t know what I meant. I explained that reform might increase the number of British citizens who had the right of voting at elections for parliament. She brightened up directly. ‘Ah,’ she said, ‘I’ve heard my husband talk about elections. The more there are of them (_he_ says) the more money he’ll get for his vote. I’m all for reform.’ On my way out of the house, I tried the man who works in my garden on the same subject. He didn’t look at the matter from the housekeeper’s sanguine point of view. ‘I don’t deny that parliament once gave me a good dinner for nothing at the public-house,’ he admitted. ‘But that was years ago--and (you’ll excuse me, sir) I hear nothing of another dinner to come. It’s a matter of opinion, of course. I don’t myself believe in reform.’ There are specimens of the state of public spirit in our village!” He paused. Emily was listening--but he had not succeeded in choosing a subject that amused her. He tried a topic more nearly connected with his own interests; the topic of the future. “Our good friend has asked me to prolong my visit, after Sunday’s duties are over,” he said. “I hope I shall find you here, next week?” “Will the affairs of your parish allow you to come back?” Emily asked mischievously. “The affairs of my parish--if you force me to confess it--were only an excuse.” “An excuse for what?” “An excuse for keeping away from Monksmoor--in the interests of my own tranquillity. The experiment has failed. While you are here, I can’t keep away.” She still declined to understand him seriously. “Must I tell you in plain words that flattery is thrown away on me?” she said. “Flattery is not offered to you,” he answered gravely. “I beg your pardon for having led to the mistake by talking of myself.” Having appealed to her indulgence by that act of submission, he ventured on another distant allusion to the man whom he hated and feared. “Shall I meet any friends of yours,” he resumed, “when I return on Monday?” “What do you mean?” “I only meant to ask if Mr. Wyvil expects any new guests?” As he put the question, Cecilia’s voice was heard behind them, calling to Emily. They both turned round. Mr. Wyvil had joined his daughter and her two friends. He advanced to meet Emily. “I have some news for you that you little expect,” he said. “A telegram has just arrived from Netherwoods. Mr. Alban Morris has got leave of absence, and is coming here to-morrow.” CHAPTER XLIV. COMPETING. Time at Monksmoor had advanced to the half hour before dinner, on Saturday evening.