“You can't help me. I thought you could, but you can't. It's a matter for a lawyer. I must run up to town.” “And cut the garden-party?” “That's where I'm tied,” exclaimed Morland, impatiently. “I ought to start now, but if I cut the garden-party the duchess would never forgive me--and by Jove, I may need the duchess more than ever--and I've got a meeting to attend in Cosford this morning to which a lot of people are coming from a distance.” “Can't I interview the lawyer for you?” “No. I must do it myself.” The butler entered and looked with grave displeasure at the wreckage on the tea-tray. While he was repairing the disaster, Morland went back to the window and Jimmie stood by his side. “If you fight it through squarely, it will all come right in the end.” “You don't mind my not telling you about it?” said Morland, in a low voice. “Why should I? In everything there is a time for silence and a time for speech.” “You're right,” said Morland, thrusting his hands into his trousers' pockets; “but how I am to get through this accursed day in silence I don't know.” They sat down to breakfast. Morland rejected the offer of tea, and called for a whisky and soda which he nearly drained at a gulp. Mr. Hardacre came in, and eyed the long glass indulgently. “Bucking yourself up, eh? Why did n't you ask for a pint of champagne?” He opened the newspaper and ran through the pages. Morland watched him with swift nervous glances, and uttered a little gasp of relief when he threw it aside and attacked his grilled kidneys. His own meal was soon over. Explaining that he had papers to work at in the library, he hurried out of the room. “Can't understand a man being so keen on these confounded politics,” his host remarked to Jimmie across the table. A polite commonplace was all that could be expected in reply. Politics were engrossing. “That's the worst of it,” said Mr. Hardacre. “In the good old days a man could take his politics like a gentleman; now he has got to go at them like a damned blaspheming agitator on a tub.” “Cosford was once a pretty little pocket borough, wasn't it?” said Jimmie. “Now Trade's unfeeling train usurp the privileges of His Grace of Wiltshire and threaten to dispossess his nominee. Instead of one simple shepherd recording his pastoral vote we have an educated electorate daring to exercise their discretion.” Mr. Hardacre looked at Jimmie askance; he always regarded an allusive style with suspicion, as if it necessarily harboured revolutionary theories. “I hope you're not one of those--” He checked himself as he was going to say “low radical fellows.” Politeness forbade. “I hope you are not a radical, Mr. Padgate?” “I am sure I don't quite know,” replied Jimmie, cheerfully. “Humph!” said Mr. Hardacre, “I believe you are.”