“Mrs. Wingfield, I ask you if this isn’t ungenerous on the part of your husband. Here I have come down from the intoxicating pleasure of the London season solely to ask this man to become a member of Parliament, and this is how he receives my proposition.” Mr. Franklin Forrester had very rarely to be so straightforward as he was in this speech. As a matter of fact, his resources in this particular direction were so limited that he found it absolutely necessary to economise them; and the general opinion that prevailed among his political opponents was that he was very successful in his exercise of this form of thrift. But his excuse to himself for having resorted to an unaccustomed figure of speech was that this was an exceptional case that demanded exceptional treatment. He had been straightforward almost to a point of abruptness, and he perceived that the end had justified the means: Jack Wingfield was voiceless and gasping, and Mrs. Wingfield was silent and flushing. He saw what manner of woman she was--yes, up to a certain point. He saw that she was far more appreciative of a compliment paid to her husband than her husband was; and he also saw that she was more anxious for her husband’s advancement than her husband was. He had rendered them speechless; and he knew that that was the prehistoric method of woman-capture; and that up to the present a more effective method has not been devised by the wit of man. Stun them, and there you are. He felt that he had captured Mrs. Wingfield. She had flushed with surprise and delight. He had heard all about her from his useful friend, Compton Elliot, of Framsby. She was a farmer’s daughter, and having played her cards well, she had married a man with a fine property and not too rigid a backbone. She was sure to be ambitious to achieve a further step--one that should carry her away from the associations of the farm into the centre of London society--for the greater part of the year. That was what Mr. Franklin Forrester’s analysis of the situation amounted to. It was not quite accurate; but there was something in it. He had not expected the farmer’s daughter of Compton Elliot’s confidential report to have so pleasing a personality. He had rather visions of a stoutish young woman with an opulent bust and dark eyes, combined with a knowledge of how to use them. But the difference between his ideal and the real lady did not cause him to change the plan of attack which he had arranged for her capture. “Now the murder’s out,” he said, looking not at Jack, but at Jack’s wife. “We want a good man who will make a good fight for Nuttingford, and we believe that we can hold the seat.” “Then why the mischief didn’t you go to a good man?” enquired Jack.