Mary laughed again. "I shouldn't think _he_ ever got drunk," she said; "he's far too solemn. In appearance, he's rather like a very respectable young milkman, fresh-coloured, you know, and sort of blunt everywhere, but he speaks--if you can imagine a cross between a very superior curate and the pater--that's what he speaks like, except that there's just an echo of an accent--not bad, you know, but there." Grantly took the pipe out of his mouth and pulled the lobe of his ear meditatively. "Gallup," he repeated. "Gallup, I've heard something about that name quite lately. Surely, if you walked with him right from the Forty Firs and talked all the time, you must have found out something more?" "He's going to make a speech at Marlehouse to-morrow night; he was spouting away like anything just before he fell down. That's what made Parker bark so." "I've got it," cried Grantly. "He's the Liberal candidate, that's what he is. He's standing against poor old Brooke of Medenham, and they say he'll get in, too--young brute." "Is he a Labour member?" "No, Liberal, they couldn't run a Labour member at Marlehouse; not enough cash in the constituency . . . tell you who he is, son of old Gallup that kept the ready-made clothes shop in the market-place--'Golden Anchor' or something, they called it. Mother used to buy suits there for the kids in the village for Easter, jolly decent suits they were, too." "And does he keep on the 'Golden Anchor'?" "I don't think so, but I don't know. Jolly good cheek marching through our woods, as if they belonged to him. Wish I'd met him." "My dear chap, we're the last people in the world who can say anything to people for marching through other people's property, you especially. Why, nine-tenths of the bad rows, ever since any of us could walk, have been about that sort of thing." "Good old Mary, that Radical chap's converted you. What else did he say? Come on; get it off your chest." At that moment, the door was opened by an elderly man-servant, who announced: "The master wishes to speak to you, Miss Mary." "Oh, Botticelli! Cimabue! Burne Jones!" Mary ejaculated. "The pater must have been looking out of the window, too. What _bad_ luck." "I wouldn't mention having _touched_ the chap in your interview with the pater," Grantly called after her. As Eloquent neared the Manor gates--those great gates famous throughout the country for the gryphons on their posts and their wonderful fairy-like iron tracery--a little boy came out from amongst the tall chestnuts in the avenue. His face was dirty and his sailor-suit much the worse for wear, but his outstanding, high-bridged little nose and broad, confident smile proclaimed him one of the family. He stood right in the stranger's path, exclaiming: "Hullo! had a scrap with the keeper?" His tone proclaimed a purely friendly curiosity. "Certainly not," Eloquent answered, coldly. "I had the misfortune to slip and fall."