Mrs. Montague Cohen swept in past the servant with the tray and took possession of the best chair. “Mamma is here too,” she cried; “she and aunt Ada will be in in a minute.” She drew off her gloves and the two girls rose to greet Mrs. Sachs, who at this point came with Mrs. Leuniger into the room. Judith gave her hand very quietly to Reuben’s mother, then took her seat at some distance from the group round the tea-table, occupying herself with cutting the leaves of a novel that had just arrived from Mudie’s. “Reuben is nominated,” cried Adelaide, as she helped herself liberally to tea-cake. “We had a telegram this morning.” “He expects to get in _this_ time?” said Mrs. Leuniger, her pessimistic mind reverting naturally to her nephew’s first unsuccessful attempt at embarking on a political career. “It won’t be for want of interest if he doesn’t,” said Mrs. Sachs; “Sir Nicholas Kemys and his wife are working day and night for him--day and night.” “And Miss Lee-Harrison, Lady Kemys’ sister, _she_ seems to be quite specially zealous in the good cause,” put in Adelaide with meaning. Secretly she was mortified at not having been asked down to St. Baldwin’s for the campaign, Reuben having met her hints on the subject in a very decided manner. There was some satisfaction in venting her feelings on Judith, for whose benefit her last remark was uttered. “When is the election?” said Rose, turning to her aunt. “Not till to-day week. But I may safely say there is no real cause for anxiety.” “Did you see last night’s _Globe_?” cried Adelaide, “and the _St. James’s_? They cracked up Reuben no end.” Judith had seen them; she had seen also the _Pall Mall Gazette_, which expressed itself in very different terms. She had put back _Poems and Ballads_ on its shelf, and had taken to reading all the articles respecting the prospects of the St. Baldwin’s elections that she could lay hands on. At least she had a right to be interested in what she had been told so much about, but there were times when she felt, as she read, that her interest was intrusive, a thing to be ashamed of. “I suppose,” said Rose, “that he is too busy to write much.” “We had a letter yesterday--just a line. He seemed in splendid spirits, and has promised to wire from time to time,” answered Adelaide. “A good son,” said Mrs. Sachs half tenderly, half jestingly, very proudly, “who never forgets his mother.” So the talk went on. Judith sat there listening, cutting open her novel, and throwing in a remark from time to time. Every word that was uttered seemed a brick in the wall that was building between herself and Reuben. In this crisis of his career, so long looked forward to, so often discussed, he had no need, no thought of her. Adelaide, Esther, Rose, all had more claim on him than she; she was shut out from his life.