“Volumnia,” remonstrates Sir Leicester with his utmost severity.  “Volumnia!”

“No, no, I don’t mean what for,” cries Volumnia with her favourite little scream.  “How stupid I am!  I mean what a pity!”

“I am glad,” returns Sir Leicester, “that you do mean what a pity.”

Volumnia hastens to express her opinion that the shocking people ought to be tried as traitors and made to support the party.

“I am glad, Volumnia,” repeats Sir Leicester, unmindful of these mollifying sentiments, “that you do mean what a pity.  It is disgraceful to the electors.  But as you, though inadvertently and without intending so unreasonable a question, asked me ‘what for?’ let me reply to you.  For necessary expenses.  And I trust to your good sense, Volumnia, not to pursue the subject, here or elsewhere.”

Sir Leicester feels it incumbent on him to observe a crushing aspect towards Volumnia because it is whispered abroad that these necessary expenses will, in some two hundred election petitions, be unpleasantly connected with the word bribery, and because some graceless jokers have consequently suggested the omission from the Church service of the ordinary supplication in behalf of the High Court of Parliament and have recommended instead that the prayers of the congregation be requested for six hundred and fifty-eight gentlemen in a very unhealthy state.

“I suppose,” observes Volumnia, having taken a little time to recover her spirits after her late castigation, “I suppose Mr. Tulkinghorn has been worked to death.”

“I don’t know,” says Sir Leicester, opening his eyes, “why Mr. Tulkinghorn should be worked to death.  I don’t know what Mr. Tulkinghorn’s engagements may be.  He is not a candidate.”

Volumnia had thought he might have been employed.  Sir Leicester could desire to know by whom, and what for.  Volumnia, abashed again, suggests, by somebody—­to advise and make arrangements.  Sir Leicester is not aware that any client of Mr. Tulkinghorn has been in need of his assistance.

Lady Dedlock, seated at an open window with her arm upon its cushioned ledge and looking out at the evening shadows falling on the park, has seemed to attend since the lawyer’s name was mentioned.

A languid cousin with a moustache in a state of extreme debility now observes from his couch that man told him ya’as’dy that Tulkinghorn had gone down t’ that iron place t’ give legal ’pinion ‘bout something, and that contest being over t’ day, ’twould be highly jawlly thing if Tulkinghorn should ’pear with news that Coodle man was floored.

Mercury in attendance with coffee informs Sir Leicester, hereupon, that Mr. Tulkinghorn has arrived and is taking dinner.  My Lady turns her head inward for the moment, then looks out again as before.

Volumnia is charmed to hear that her delight is come.  He is so original, such a stolid creature, such an immense being for knowing all sorts of things and never telling them!  Volumnia is persuaded that he must be a Freemason.  Is sure he is at the head of a lodge, and wears short aprons, and is made a perfect idol of with candlesticks and trowels.  These lively remarks the fair Dedlock delivers in her youthful manner, while making a purse.