Having collected his chickens, the evergreen Member for Aberdeen led us along the passage opposite our entrance to the Terrace. The way on the left leads to the House of Commons, that on the right to the House of Lords. It is all very imposing, as far as the end of the passage, but having reached that one stumbles down a stone-flagged stairway which would hardly do credit as the ordinary back-stairs of a private London house, and would certainly be a poor specimen of the back-stairs of a country mansion. Foreigners and Americans must be rather surprised at the cellar-like and tortuous means by which they are led to the famous river view; for back regions, consisting of kitchens, store-rooms, pantries, and other like places, have to be passed by the dainty ladies who trip their way to the Terrace overlooking the Thames. Having emerged from semi-darkness to the light, all is changed. From the Terrace there is a magnificent view of St. Thomas’s Hospital opposite, and the barges and river craft plying between. Neat maids in black dresses and white caps and aprons serve the Commons. It is a charming place; still, although shaded from the sun, wind on the Terrace is not unknown, and the cloths on the little tables have to be carefully pegged down to keep them in their places. The entertainment, however pleasant, is not exactly what one would call smart. Plain white cups and brown earthenware teapots, hunks of cake on plates, or strawberries and cream, form the fare. There are none of those dainty little trays and mats, and pretty crockery, to which one is accustomed at ladies’ clubs or in Bond Street tea-rooms. At one end of the Terrace, nearest the Bridge, is the Speaker’s House, and that part of the walk is reserved for Members alone. On a hot summer afternoon twenty, thirty, or forty men may be seen there settling important business, or enjoying tea and cigarettes. Then comes the portion set aside for Members with guests, and there the gaiety of the dresses—for every woman puts on her best to go to tea at the House of Commons—is delightful, but mingled with the smart company are some queer folk. Members are always being asked to entertain their constituents, and some of the political ladies from the provinces must be rather a trial to their representatives at Westminster. We were a funny little party that afternoon. Miss Braddon (Mrs. Maxwell) sat at the end of the table, then came Sir Gilbert Parker, myself, Mr. and Mrs. (now Sir Henry and Lady) W. H. Lucy, Sir William Wedderburn, and Mrs. John Murray. Since the Radical majority in 1906 the Terrace has become a very different place. Smart ladies and pretty frocks, well-set-up and well-groomed men, are not predominant; for Labour Members wear labour clothes, and smoke pipes, while their families and friends look ill at ease below those glorious towers of Westminster.