Then, of course Miss Peasey _would_ poke her veiny nose right down into the book, while the draught blew her hair about and unpleasantly tickled his cheek. "It's the best butter," she said, sorrowfully, at last. "But my watch is quite all right." "I beg your pardon?" "I made an allusion to _Alice in Wonderland_," he shouted. Miss Peasey retired from the room in dudgeon, and Guy wasted ten minutes in examining various theories on what his housekeeper could have thought he meant by his last remark. Finally he wrote off to a friend of his, an ardent young Radical peer with whom he had shared rooms at Oxford. PLASHERS MEAD, WYCHFORD, OXON, _March 15th_. DEAR COM,--Why the dickens haven't you written to me for such ages? I'm going to chuck this place. Haven't you got any scheme on hand for teaching the democracy to find out the uselessness of your order? Why not a new critical weekly with me as bondslave-in-chief? Or doesn't one of your National Liberals want a bright young fellow to dot his i's and pick up his h's? For £250 a year I'll serve any of them, write his speeches, interview his constituents or even teach his cubs to prey on the body politic like Father Lion himself. Seriously, though, if you hear of anything, do think of me. Yours ever, G. H. Comeragh wrote back at once: 420 BROOK STREET, W., _March 16th_. DEAR OLD GUY,--If you will bury yourself like a misanthropic badger, you can't expect to be written to by every post. Oddly enough there has been some talk of starting a new paper; at least it isn't really very odd because the subject is mooted three times a day in the advanced political circles round which I revolve. However, just at present the scheme is in abeyance. Never mind, I'll fetch you out of your earth at the first excuse that offers itself. Do you ever go in and see the Balliol people? My young brother's up now, you know. Ask him over to lunch some day. He's a shining light of Tory Democracy and is going to preserve, or I suppose I ought to say conserve, the honor of our family. When are your poems coming out? I heard from Tom Anstruther the other day. He seems rather hurt that an attaché at Madrid is not given an opportunity of adjusting or upsetting the balance of power in Europe. I'll try to get down for a week-end, but I'm betraying my order by voting against an obscurantist majority whenever I can, and plotting hard against the liberties of landowners when I'm not voting. However, when the House flies away to search for Summer I'll drop out of the flock and perch a while on your roof. One thing I will promise, which is that when I'm Prime Minister you shall be offered the Laurel at £200 a year. Yours ever, COM.