“Ha!” says Mr. Tulkinghorn.  “It did not prevent him from being very active in this election, though.”

Sir Leicester is distinctly heard to gasp before speaking.  “Did I understand you?  Did you say that Mr. Rouncewell had been very active in this election?”

“Uncommonly active.”

“Against—­”

“Oh, dear yes, against you.  He is a very good speaker.  Plain and emphatic.  He made a damaging effect, and has great influence.  In the business part of the proceedings he carried all before him.”

It is evident to the whole company, though nobody can see him, that Sir Leicester is staring majestically.

“And he was much assisted,” says Mr. Tulkinghorn as a wind-up, “by his son.”

“By his son, sir?” repeats Sir Leicester with awful politeness.

“By his son.”

“The son who wished to marry the young woman in my Lady’s service?”

“That son.  He has but one.”

“Then upon my honour,” says Sir Leicester after a terrific pause during which he has been heard to snort and felt to stare, “then upon my honour, upon my life, upon my reputation and principles, the floodgates of society are burst open, and the waters have—­a—­ obliterated the landmarks of the framework of the cohesion by which things are held together!”

General burst of cousinly indignation.  Volumnia thinks it is really high time, you know, for somebody in power to step in and do something strong.  Debilitated cousin thinks—­country’s going—­ Dayvle—­steeple-chase pace.

“I beg,” says Sir Leicester in a breathless condition, “that we may not comment further on this circumstance.  Comment is superfluous.  My Lady, let me suggest in reference to that young woman—­”

“I have no intention,” observes my Lady from her window in a low but decided tone, “of parting with her.”

“That was not my meaning,” returns Sir Leicester.  “I am glad to hear you say so.  I would suggest that as you think her worthy of your patronage, you should exert your influence to keep her from these dangerous hands.  You might show her what violence would be done in such association to her duties and principles, and you might preserve her for a better fate.  You might point out to her that she probably would, in good time, find a husband at Chesney Wold by whom she would not be—­” Sir Leicester adds, after a moment’s consideration, “dragged from the altars of her forefathers.”

These remarks he offers with his unvarying politeness and deference when he addresses himself to his wife.  She merely moves her head in reply.  The moon is rising, and where she sits there is a little stream of cold pale light, in which her head is seen.

“It is worthy of remark,” says Mr. Tulkinghorn, “however, that these people are, in their way, very proud.”

“Proud?” Sir Leicester doubts his hearing.

“I should not be surprised if they all voluntarily abandoned the girl—­yes, lover and all—­instead of her abandoning them, supposing she remained at Chesney Wold under such circumstances.”