DIST. V. You have been—­far more than others I could name.

CHAMBERLAIN.  That is a friendly judgment.  Others wouldn’t say so.  If a man stays in politics till he ceases to be important, while others remain important, there’s bound to be a change of relations.

DIST. V. In our case I don’t admit that it has happened.

CHAMBERLAIN.  Don’t you?  You were our partyleader.  I broke away; so you had to break me.  From your point of view you were right.  I thought I knew the game better than you.  I made a mistake.

DIST. V. Do you mean, then, that you intended to break me?

CHAMBERLAIN.  Oh, no.  But I meant to—­persuade you.

DIST. V. My view is that you did—­very thoroughly.  Surely I went a long way—­conceded a great deal.

CHAMBERLAIN.  “Half a sheet of note-paper” was the measure of it.  Yes, that speech was a great success, and you remained our leader.  But your halving of that sheet was the beginning of—­my defeat, your victory.

DIST. V. I don’t recognise either.  At this moment we are both defeated, in a sense:  out of office, that is to say.

CHAMBERLAIN.  Yes, but you will come back.  I shan’t.

DIST. V. But—­in all its essentials—­what you stand for will.

CHAMBERLAIN.  As a hang-fire, perhaps, while parties temporise and readjust themselves to a new balance.  But never the same thing again.  The time for it has gone.  I missed it.

DIST. V. You mustn’t be depressed, Chamberlain.  Great policies, new orientations, need careful nursing—­testing too.  Conditions are changing very rapidly.

CHAMBERLAIN.  Mine are getting worse.  I have two nurses now—­night and day:  and I obey orders.

DIST. V. You do well to remind me.  You shouldn’t have let me tire you.

(And so saying he rises.)

CHAMBERLAIN.  You don’t.  You used to, now and then, when we didn’t agree.  You had the deliberate mind, your own fixed rate of progression:  one couldn’t hurry you.  And your semitones, and semicircles, and semi-quavers used sometimes to worry me, I own.  They don’t now:  having become a monotone myself, I acquiesce. I’m the slow one, now:  you’ve set me my pace....  Here I sit, stock still.

DIST. V. (lightly diverting the conversation from its impending embarrassment).  With your old associates still round you, I see!

(And he touches a trail of blossom admiringly, as he continues:)

They, at least, in their reflected glory, look flourishing; for they, too, have had a share in your career, have they not?

CHAMBERLAIN.  Yes, they helped me to get into Punch, I suppose, if not into Parliament.  Yet, I never thought of it, till it happened—­’twas a mere accident.  Would you like to take one with you?

DIST. V. I don’t usually so efface myself, but I will with pleasure.  This one is quite exquisite.  May I?  Thanks (and the glory of it goes to his buttonhole).  I notice, too, that it has a scent.