Mr. Ribble did not come down to breakfast the next morning. He was reviewing a book for the _Nation_ and kept in his room. John saw breakfast go in to him and wondered if ever the day would come that he would be so important as to have breakfast sent up to his room. He went to the window and sat there for a time enjoying the early morning scene, the light on the distant hills, the sharp sound of a passing cart down in the lane, and stray noises from the stable yard. Then he watched the country postman cycle up the drive, his fresh healthy face perspiring, a heavy mailbag on his shoulders. John got up and went out into the hall and received the letters, which he spread out on the table in neat order. There were fifteen for Mr. Vernley, six for Mr. Ribble--John paused lovingly over these. How splendid they looked! "The Rt. Hon. Ellerton Ribble, M.P." and as he looked the magic letters changed into-- "The Rt. Hon. John N. Dean, M.P." Day-dreaming he did not see that Mrs. Vernley had entered the hall and was looking at him. "Disappointed, John?" she asked. "I am always disappointed when I get no letters. I like receiving them, but detest answering them." "Good morning, Mrs. Vernley! No--I was just thinking how splendid Mr. Ribble's address looks." "Wondering when your own will be like it?" asked Mrs. Vernley, placing her hand on the boy's shoulder. She detected the pleasure her little guess gave him. "Well, if Muriel has anything to do with it," she added, "you'll be the youngest Cabinet minister in history." "Muriel?" asked John. "Yes, last night she gave Mr. Ribble the worst cross-questioning he has had for many a long hour. I believe she has planned your whole career, but I hope, John," said Mrs. Vernley, opening her letters, "that you are not going to waste yourself in politics. It is the most futile life a man can lead. I never knew a member of Parliament who wasn't a harassed mass of vanity. Their lives are made wretched by pulling wires for a thousand societies that threaten to extract a dozen votes at their next election. They are the prey of the parsons, charity organisations and vested interests--" "But surely Mr. Vernley--" began John. "One's husband is always excepted from general criticism, John. My husband is such a bad member of Parliament because he is such a good husband." "The world has to be ruled, Mrs. Vernley." "I do not deny it, but why presume that Parliament rules Britain? I'm quite sure it doesn't, any more than Congress rules the United States or the Chamber rules France. There's the gong. I wonder how many of us will appear at breakfast!" In the breakfast room they found Tod and Muriel, and a minute later Vernley came in and took his seat. "Let's see--this morning? Ah! it's plaice and sausage," he cried. "Lift the covers, Mother." Sausage and plaice duly appeared. "We have a Scotch cook with the mind of a mathematician," said Tod. "Wednesday, bacon and eggs."