“I don’t want you to make a fool of yourself, Edward. You’ve told me often that you don’t go in for book-learning; and it can’t hurt your feelings when I say that you’re utterly ignorant. I don’t think its honest to take a position you’re not competent to fill.” “Me--not competent?” cried Edward, with surprise. “That’s a good one! Upon my word, I’m not given to boasting, but I must say I think myself competent to do most things.... You just ask old Bacot what he thinks of me, and that’ll open your eyes. The fact is, every one appreciates me but you: but they say a man’s never a hero to his valet.” “Your proverb is most apt, dear Edward.... But I have no intention of thwarting you in any of your plans. I only thought you did not know what you were going in for, and that I might save you from some humiliation.” “Humiliation, where? Pooh, you think I shan’t get elected. Well, look here, I bet you any money you like that I shall come out top of the poll.” Next day Edward wrote to Mr. Bacot expressing pleasure that he was able to fall in with the views of the Conservative Association; and Bertha, who knew that no argument could turn him from his purpose, determined to coach him, so that he should not make too arrant a fool of himself. Her fears were proportionate to her estimate of Edward’s ability! She sent to London for pamphlets and blue-books on the rights and duties of the County Council, and begged Edward to read them. But in his self-confident manner he pooh-poohed her, and laughed when she read them herself so as to be able to teach him. “I don’t want to know all that rot,” he cried. “All a man wants is gumption. Why, d’you suppose a man who goes in for parliament knows anything about politics? Of course he doesn’t.” Bertha was indignant that her husband should be so well satisfied in his illiteracy, and that he stoutly refused to learn. It is only when a man knows a good deal that he discovers how unfathomable is his ignorance. Edward, knowing so little, was convinced that there was little to know, and consequently felt quite assured that he knew all which was necessary. He might more easily have been persuaded that the moon was made of green cheese than that he lacked the very rudiments of knowledge. The County Council elections in London were also being held at that time, and Bertha, hoping to give Edward useful hints, diligently read the oratory which they occasioned. But he refused to listen. “I don’t want to crib other men’s stuff. I’m going to talk on my own.” “Why don’t you write out a speech and get it by heart?” Bertha fancied that so she might influence him a little and spare herself and him the humiliation of utter ridicule. “Old Bacot says when he makes a speech, he always trusts to the spur of the moment. He says that Fox made his best speeches when he was blind drunk.” “D’you know who Fox was?” asked Bertha. “Some old buffer or other who made speeches.”