“Thus we all had the pleasure of seeing in the papers a picture of Sir Horace Hunter, O.B.E., smiling in an ingratiating manner at his favourite cockatoo. We know this detail of his existence, which might seem a merely domestic one. But the fact that he is shortly to be paid thirty thousand pounds of public money, for continuing to live in his own house, is concealed with the utmost delicacy. “Similarly we have seen whole pages of an illustrated paper filled with glimpses of Lord Normantowers enjoying his honeymoon, which the papers in question are careful to describe as his Romance. Whatever it may be, an antiquated and fastidious taste might possibly be disposed to regard it as his own affair. But the fact that the taxpayer’s money, which is the taxpayer’s affair, is to be given him in enormous quantities, first for going out of his castle, and then for coming back into it--this little domestic detail is thought too trivial for the taxpayer to be told of it. “Or again, we are frequently informed that the hobby of Mr. Rosenbaum Low is improving the breed of Pekinese, and God knows they need it. But it would seem the sort of hobby that anybody might have without telling everybody else about it. On the other hand, the fact that Mr. Rosenbaum Low is being paid twice over for the same house, and keeping the house as well, is concealed from the public; along with the equally interesting fact that he is allowed to do these things chiefly because he lends money to the Prime Minister.” The Prime Minister smiled still more grimly and glanced in a light yet lingering fashion at some of the accompanying leaflets. They seemed to be in the form of electioneering leaflets, though not apparently connected with any particular election. “Vote for Crane. He Said He would Eat His Hat and Did It. Lord Normantowers said he would explain how people came to swallow his coronet; but he hasn’t done it yet. “Vote for Pierce. He Said Pigs Would Fly And They Did. Rosenbaum Low said a service of international aërial express trains would fly; and they didn’t. It was your money he made to fly. “Vote for the League of the Long Bow. They Are The Only Men Who Don’t Tell Lies.” The Prime Minister stood gazing after the vanishing cloud-castle, as it faded into the clouds, with a curious expression in his eyes. Whether it were better or worse for his soul, there was something in him that understood much that the muddled materialists around him could never understand. “Quite poetical, isn’t it?” he said drily. “Wasn’t it Victor Hugo or some French poet who said something about politics and the clouds?... The people say, ‘Bah, the poet is in the clouds. So is the thunderbolt.’” “Thunderbolts!” said Normantowers contemptuously. “What can those fools do but go about flinging fireworks?” “Quite so,” replied Eden; “but I’m afraid by this time they are flinging fireworks into a powder magazine.”