“Of course,” said Goddard. “That’s why Willaston wrote to me in particular.” “I’ll keep a look-out,” said Gleam. “Cleaver and Flyte are the leading firm there. Oddly enough, I am connected with them in a roundabout way in the City, through Rosenthal, you know. And then there are Flood & Sons in London.” “What an encyclopaedia you are!” said Goddard. Aloysius Gleam laughed, and curled his moustache. “That reminds me of my mission,” he said. “Why haven’t you called upon Lady Phayre?” Goddard disregarded the apparent non sequitur, and replied with an air of surprise-- “What have I to do in ladies’ drawing-rooms?” “Sit, drink tea, and talk political gossip,” said Gleam. “I wasn’t brought up to it,” replied Goddard. “I have never done it, and therefore it is not to be done. Sound doctrine for a Progressist. Well, Lady Phayre is a little indignant.” “Why? For not taking advantage of a piece of empty politeness?” “Lady Phayre’s politeness is never empty when it is directed towards a member of the party. Her name is not unknown to you?” Goddard admitted that the fame of Lady Phayre had reached him. “Well, then,” said Gleam, “I advise you, as your oldest political friend, to go and see her. She’s a charming woman, attached heart and soul to the party, and can give you help in the most unexpected ways. There never was a successful politician yet who despised the assistance of women.” “Many have got into rare messes through women,” said Goddard. “More have got out of them by their aid,” retorted Gleam convincedly. “But she would be rather astonished if I turned up, wouldn’t she?” said Goddard. Gleam broke into a laugh. There were unlooked for simplicities in Goddard. “I tell you, my dear man,” he said, “that, as Lady Shepherdess of the party, Lady Phayre expects you to go and pay her your homage. Hang it, man! she paid you the compliment of journeying all the way to Stepney to hear you speak.” Goddard’s face assumed an air of perplexity, oddly at variance with its usual stern, resolute expression. Then the obstinacy in his nature asserted itself. “No. It’s very kind of Lady Phayre, and I feel flattered. But I’ll stick to my own ways. Call me bear, or Goth, or what you like--I have no relish for false positions. You know who I am and all about me, so I don’t mind talking frankly to you.” The blood rose to his face as he said this, and he held up his head somewhat defiantly. He had barely as yet divested himself of the uncomfortable impression of masquerading in his well fitting clothes, and of incongruity in refined table adjuncts. If these occasioned a worrying feeling of unfamiliarity, the sense of a wrong element in a lady’s drawing-room was still more galling. Gleam was keen enough to perceive these workings of false pride, and he bore Goddard no malice. “Very well, then,” he said with a smile. “Perhaps you are right in your pig-headed way. I mustn’t keep you from your lunch. Good-bye. I’ll bear Ecclesby in mind.”