So soon as Blenkins had cleared, Trafford followed him to the pay-desk, and went on upstairs to the smoking-room, thinking of Labrador. Long ago he had read the story of Wallace and Hubbard in that wilderness. There was much to be said for a winter in Labrador. It was cold, it was clear, infinitely lonely, with a keen edge of danger and hardship and never a letter or a paper. One could provision a hut and sit wrapped in fur, watching the Northern Lights.... "I'm off to Labrador," said Trafford, and entered the smoking-room. It was, after all, perfectly easy to go to Labrador. One had just to go.... As he pinched the end of his cigar, he became aware of Blenkins, with a gleam of golden glasses and a flapping white cuff, beckoning across the room to him. With that probable scowl on his conscience Trafford was moved to respond with an unreal warmth, and strolled across to Blenkins and a group of three or four other people, including that vigorous young politician, Weston Massinghay, and Hart, K.C., about the further fireplace. "We were talking of you," said Blenkins. "Come and sit down with us. Why don't you come into Parliament?" "I've just arranged to go for some months to Labrador." "Industrial development?" asked Blenkins, all alive. "No. Holiday." No Blenkins believes that sort of thing, but of course, if Trafford chose to keep his own counsel---- "Well, come into Parliament as soon as you get back." Trafford had had that old conversation before. He pretended insensibility when Blenkins gestured to a vacant chair. "No," he said, still standing, "we settled all that. And now I'm up to my neck in--detail about Labrador. I shall be starting--before the month is out." Blenkins and Hart simulated interest. "It's immoral," said Blenkins, "for a man of your standing to keep out of politics." "It's more than immoral," said Hart; "it's American." "Solomonson comes in to represent the firm," smiled Trafford, signalled the waiter for coffee, and presently disentangled himself from their company.