“Go in for politics. The losing side, of course. They’ll be having their spell of office in a few years.” “I don’t know anything about politics.” “No, but you’ve got intelligence; you’ll soon learn.” He looked flattered. Inwardly I smiled at the idea of his being in the House of Commons. “How does one begin?” It was strange that Lionel, who was heir to a couple of newspapers, should know so little. “Oh, you get to know all the right people. Let them know that you are ready to drop a certain amount of money. Lady Pebworth was saying only the other day that their people want money. She’s rather a power in the political world, you know.” He looked vacant, and had the frankness to ask: “Who’s Lady Pebworth?” “Well, her husband was in the last Cabinet. Your wife ought to know her. Lady Pebworth admired her immensely the only time she saw her.” “Have they met?” “No, but do you remember one evening when you and Sibella were in the stalls at the Gaiety, and I was in a box with some people?” “Yes.” “That was Lady Pebworth. She has been very civil to me. I don’t suppose I should have had such a good time if it had not been for her.” This admission of my own indebtedness to someone else for the entrée to certain houses that he had envied me made him quite genial, and broke down the barrier between us, while a little more flattery judiciously laid on accomplished what I desired. “You haven’t been to see us yet,” he said, quite graciously. “I haven’t been asked,” I laughed. “I’ll get Sibella to write and ask you to one of our Sunday lunches.” We parted quite amicably, and I think I left him under the impression that I was most anxious to be friendly with him. Sir Anthony Cross delayed coming to see me, as I thought he would, but evidently he could think of no other way of making Sibella’s acquaintance, and one evening when I was drinking tea—a habit to which I am addicted—he was shown in. “No thanks, I never drink tea. I don’t know what people see in it.” There was a perceptible patronage in his manner. He assumed the usual attitude of an Englishman of birth when brought into familiar intercourse with a man of whose caste he is not sure. There was no superficial fault to be found with his manner, but it was obvious to a keen perception that he presumed a gulf. “Not tea as they make it in this country,” I answered languidly. “Tea drinking is an art. It is one of the most extraordinary facts of the latter part of the nineteenth century how readily the country exchanged China for Indian tea, and yet it is like preferring cider to champagne.” I pushed the cigars towards him. “Most men cannot appreciate tea because their palates are ruined by alcohol.” The cigar put him in a good temper; I knew that it was something exceptional.