“No,” replied the guest, “my man was rather cushiony about the chops. Neither of us was much hurt.” “Capital little shindy!” said Tommy, glowing with satisfaction. “I think I shall take a station of the Underground for the chances of such an appetiser now and then. I haven’t felt such a meritorious hunger for ages. Very likely we’ll be arrested in the morning.” Battles in a worthy cause win favour with the fair. Mrs. Cecilia looked a little anxiously for wounds, but there were none save what a stitch might repair. She plucked a rose for each, as a palm of victory. At dinner, after the asphodel cauliflower, the lotus celery, the _pommes d’amour_ tomatoes, and the amaranthine flower-adorned fruits, the friends talked over this mêlée, sipping meanwhile their nectar coffee, and wielding the nephelegeret sceptre of tobacco. Mrs. Tootler was not to be weeded out. They could not spare her presence, blithe and débonnaire, nor in the discussion her unembarrassed womanly rectitude. “You must be indignant, Tommy,” said Ira, “at the intrusion of those kidnappers.” “Unfortunately our moral sense on these subjects is too much degraded,” answered Tommy. “I am angry, of course, but I do not think half enough of the infernal shame to that poor darkey. He must go to Canada, just as much an exile as any of the foreigners we make such disturbance about.” “I may seem rather ignorant,” said Waddy, “after my long absence, but tell me, do men with the social position of gentlemen here accept office from a government that is willing to make and execute such laws as this Fugitive Slave Bill?” “Why not? Mere social position does not make men gentlemen. They call themselves conservatives.” “It seems to me,” said Ira, “that in the present condition of things, a conservative must be either an ignoramus, a coward, or a knave. But, madam,” he added, turning to Mrs. Tootler, “we are boring you with politics. _Parlons chiffons._” “_Chiffons!_” cried Cecilia. “I am really indignant, Mr. Waddy. I do not believe that the gentleman so quietly smoking by your side would ever have been really roused if I were not always buzzing in his ears.” “She is right,” admitted Mr. Tootler, sipping the last drops of his now cold coffee. “Women are vigorous antidotes to moral or mental sleepiness. But, Waddy, our little adventure is bringing the present too near us; to-night must be devoted to recalling our dear old days together. To-morrow we’ll talk politics and be sad for the uncertainties of our cause--‘ma quest oggi n’ é dato goder,’” he sang. “‘Non contiamo l’ incerto domani,’” responded Cecilia, with spirit, from the same air, “which I freely translate that we do not count the future of our cause uncertain at all, either to-morrow or after.”