“Well, I dare say,” said Wharton, serenely.  “However, let’s take your ‘political economy’ a moment, and see if I can understand what you mean by it.  There never were two words that meant all things to all men so disreputably!”

And thereupon to the constant accompaniment of his cigarette, and with the utmost composure and good temper, he began to “heckle” his companion, putting questions, suggesting perfidious illustrations, extracting innocent admissions, with a practised shrewdness and malice, which presently left the unfortunate Bateson floundering in a sea of his own contradictions, and totally unable for the moment to attach any rational idea whatever to those great words of his favourite science, wherewith he was generally accustomed to make such triumphant play, both on the platform and in the bosom of the family.

The permanent official round the corner watched the unequal fight with attentive amusement.  Once when it was a question of Mill’s doctrine of cost of production as compared with that of a leading modern collectivist, he leant forward and supplied a correction of something Wharton had said.  Wharton instantly put down his cigarette and addressed him in another tone.  A rapid dialogue passed between them, the dialogue of experts, sharp, allusive, elliptical, in the midst of which the host gave the signal for joining the ladies.

“Well, all I know is,” said Bateson, as he got up, “that these kinds of questions, if you and your friends have your way, will wreck the Liberal party before long—­far more effectually than anything Irish has ever done.  On these things some of us will fight, if it must come to that.”

Wharton laughed.

“It would be a national misfortune if you didn’t give us a stiff job,” he said, with an airy good-humour which at once made the other’s blustering look ridiculous.

“I wonder what that fellow is going to do in the House,” said the permanent official to his companion as they went slowly upstairs, Wharton being some distance ahead.  “People are all beginning to talk of him as a coming man, though nobody quite knows why, as yet.  They tell me he frames well in speaking, and will probably make a mark with his speech next Friday.  But his future seems to me very doubtful.  He can only become a power as the head of a new Labour party.  But where is the party?  They all want to be kings.  The best point in his favour is that they are likely enough to take a gentleman if they must have a leader.  But there still remains the question whether he can make anything out of the material.”

“I hope to God he can’t!” said the old general, grimly; “it is these town-chatterers of yours that will bring the Empire about our heads before we’ve done.  They’ve begun it already, wherever they saw a chance.”

* * * * *

In the drawing-room Wharton devoted himself for a few minutes to his hostess, a little pushing woman, who confided to his apparently attentive ear a series of grievances as to the bad manners of the great ladies of their common party, and the general evil plight of Liberalism in London from the social point of view.