The new Secretary had passed the whole summer without a word of complaint, cooped up in the new house at Caterham; he had spent his energies in suggesting the purchase of books, the removal of pictures, and the renaming of the estate; he had recommended horses, cigars, wines, traps, motors, and jewellery, and sold them again with ready decision when he thought them unworthy; he had attended to all the correspondence, signed nearly all the cheques, received payment against all exchanges, and spared his host every sort of financial worry; he had compelled not a few of his own friends, in spite of their intense reluctance, to spend Saturday to Monday under that roof; with noble perseverance he had run the light Panhard himself for incredible distances and at a speed which Mr. Clutterbuck could hardly bear; he had done all these things for nearly two months without a respite, when, late in September, having forsworn all opportunities to shoot, he tackled the great affair. It was in the second smoking-room some time before dinner that the elder man and the younger sipping sherry and bitters, began their fateful conversation. Charlie Fitzgerald first introduced the business--and he launched it fair and clean, for when Mr. Clutterbuck had said in a ruminating sort of way "The days are drawing in, Mr. Fitzgerald," Charlie Fitzgerald had answered: "Yes---- Why don't you send something to the Party Funds?" Since his secretary had been in the house, Mr. Clutterbuck had authorised not a few large cheques, and had let Charlie sign many more. He wondered what new claim this might be, but he hardly liked to venture an opinion. He thought it better to wait a moment and let time or the goddess Chance illuminate him. "You see, after all," said Fitzgerald, spreading out one hand towards the fire, "they expect it ... don't they?" he asked sympathetically, looking up sideways in Mr. Clutterbuck's face. "Yes," said Mr. Clutterbuck in a maze, "yes"--thoughtfully--"I suppose they do." But who they were, or what it was they expected, torture could not have got out of him. "Well--you see----" went on Charlie in the tone of interest and thought which men adopt when they are putting a proposition carefully to another, "it's only natural they should. You can't carry on either of the great Parties for nothing, and lots of men expect to get everything out of politics and to put nothing in; and then there are others who don't care about being in the movement. It's a difficult job altogether." Then he added in a thoroughly different tone: "They were in a damned tight hole in '95!" "Yes, Mr. Fitzgerald," said the older man again. He had appreciated by this time perhaps one quarter of the affair.