“’Tis a want of imagination in you, Lydia,” declared Mr. Knox. “You’ll say you can’t see yourself married to me next. But that you certainly will see inside a month from Sunday.” They spoke of various matters that interested them; then Mr. Knox mentioned Kellock. “Strange that a man born and bred under the apple trees of Ashprington should show these gifts. A great paper maker; and as if that was not enough, a power of talk and a talent for politics. Not that he’ll ever be half as good in his new line as he was in his old. A man can’t rise to be first class at two crafts.” “The Labour Party will swallow him up, and we shan’t hear no more about him, I expect,” said Lydia. “That’s it. He hadn’t the very highest gifts to deal with his fellow men—not the touch of genius—too deadly serious and narrow. You feel about that sort a very proper respect; but you’d a long sight sooner live with their statues than themselves. ’Tis always uncomfortable living with heroes—even little tin ones—but when time has took ’em and just kneaded what good they’ve done into the common wealth of human progress—then we can feel kindly to their memories.” “Ope the hamper, Ned,” said Lydia. THE END PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES: Text in italics is surrounded by underscores: _italics_ Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been retained. Obvious typographical errors have been corrected. End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Storm in a Teacup, by Eden Phillpotts