In spite of her companion's affectation of a smiling quarrelsomeness, Vida unfolded her table-napkin with the air of one looking forward to her _tete-a-tete_ with the man who had brought her down. But Lord Borrodaile was a person most women liked talking to, and hardly had she begun to relish that combination in the man of careless pleasantry and pungent criticism, when Vida caught an agonized glance from her hostess, which said plainly, 'Rescue the man on your right,'--and lo! Miss Levering became aware that already, before the poor jaded politician had swallowed his soup, Mrs. Townley had fallen to catechising him about the new Bill--a theme talked threadbare by newspaperdom and all political England. But Mrs. Townley, albeit not exactly old, was one of those old-fashioned women who take what used to be called 'an intelligent interest in politics.' You may pick her out in any drawing-room from the fact that politicians shun her like the plague. Rich, childless, lonely, with more wits than occupation, practically shelved at a time when her intellectual life is most alert--the Mrs. Townleys of the world do, it must be admitted, labour under the delusion that men fighting the battle of public life, go out to dine for the express purpose of telling the intelligent female 'all about it.' She is a staunch believer not so much in women's influence as in woman's. And there is no doubt in her mind which woman's. If among her smart relations who ask her to their houses and go to hers (from that sentiment of the solidarity of the family so powerful in English life), if amongst these she succeeds from time to time in inducing two or three public officials, or even private members, to prove how good a cook she keeps, she thinks she is exercising an influence on the politics of her time. Her form of conversation consists in plying her victim with questions. Not here one there one, to keep the ball rolling, but a steady and pitiless fire of 'Do you think?' and '_Why_ do you?' Obedient to her hostess's wireless telegram, Miss Levering bent her head, and said to Mrs. Townley's neighbour-- 'I know I ought not to talk to you till after the _entree_.' 'Pray do!' said Sir William, with a sudden glint in his little eyes; and then with a burnt-child air of caution, 'Unless----' he began. 'Oh, you make conditions!' said Miss Levering, laughing. 'Only one. Promise not'--he lowered his voice--'promise not to say "Bill."' 'I won't even go so far as to say "William."' He laughed as obligingly as though the jest had been a good one. A little ashamed, its maker hastened to leave it behind. 'There's nothing I should quite so much hate talking about as politics--saving your presence.' 'Ah!' 'I was thinking of something _much_ more important.' Even her rallying tone did not wholly reassure the poor man. 'More important?' he repeated. 'Yes; I long to know (and I long to be forgiven for asking), what Order that is you are wearing, and what you did to get it.'