“It is so rare with us for a gentleman to go into politics, that we ought to do everything we can to elect him,” Mrs. Pomfret went about declaring. “Women do so much in England, I wonder they don't do more here. I was staying at Aylestone Court last year when the Honourable Billy Aylestone was contesting the family seat with a horrid Radical, and I assure you, my dear, I got quite excited. We did nothing from morning till night but electioneer for the Honourable Billy, and kissed all the babies in the borough. The mothers were so grateful. Now, Edith, do tell Jack instead of playing tennis and canoeing all day he ought to help. It's the duty of all young men to help. Noblesse oblige, you know. I can't understand Victoria. She really has influence with these country people, but she says it's all nonsense. Sometimes I think Victoria has a common streak in her--and no wonder. The other day she actually drove to the Hammonds' in a buggy with an unknown lawyer from Ripton. But I told you about it. Tell your gardener and the people that do your haying, dear, and your chicken woman. My chicken woman is most apathetic, but do you wonder, with the life they lead?” Mr. Humphrey Crewe might have had, with King Charles, the watchword “Thorough.” He sent to the town clerk for a check-list, and proceeded to honour each of the two hundred Republican voters with a personal visit. This is a fair example of what took place in the majority of cases. Out of a cloud of dust emerges an automobile, which halts, with protesting brakes, in front of a neat farmhouse, guarded by great maples. Persistent knocking by a chauffeur at last brings a woman to the door. Mrs. Jenney has a pleasant face and an ample figure. “Mr. Jenney live here?” cries Mr. Crewe from the driver's seat. “Yes,” says Mrs. Jenney, smiling. “Tell him I want to see him.” “Guess you'll find him in the apple orchard.” “Where's that?” The chauffeur takes down the bars, Mr. Jenney pricks up his ears, and presently--to his amazement--perceives a Leviathan approaching him, careening over the ruts of his wood road. Not being an emotional person, he continues to pick apples until he is summarily hailed. Then he goes leisurely towards the Leviathan. “Are you Mr. Jenney?” “Callate to be,” says Mr. Jenney, pleasantly. “I'm Humphrey Crewe.” “How be you?” says Mr. Jenney, his eyes wandering over the Leviathan. “How are the apples this year?” asks Mr. Crewe, graciously. “Fair to middlin',” says Mr. Jenney. “Have you ever tasted my Pippins?” says Mr. Crewe. “A little science in cultivation helps along. I'm going to send you a United States government pamphlet on the fruit we can raise here.” Mr. Jenney makes an awkward pause by keeping silent on the subject of the pamphlet until he shall see it. “Do you take much interest in politics?” “Not a great deal,” answers Mr. Jenney.