the younger ladies it seemed was entirely of Lady Frensham’s way of thinking, and anxious to show it.  The good lady having now got her hands upon the Cabinet proceeded to deal faithfully with its two-and-twenty members.  Winston Churchill had overridden Lord Fisher upon the question of Gallipoli, and incurred terrible responsibilities.  Lord Haldane—­she called him “Tubby Haldane”—­was a convicted traitor.  “The man’s a German out and out.  Oh! what if he hasn’t a drop of German blood in his veins?  He’s a German by choice—­which is worse.”

“I thought he had a certain capacity for organisation,” said Mr. Britling.

“We don’t want his organisation, and we don’t want him,” said Lady Frensham.

Mr. Britling pleaded for particulars of the late Lord Chancellor’s treasons.  There were no particulars.  It was just an idea the good lady had got into her head, that had got into a number of accessible heads.  There was only one strong man in all the country now, Lady Frensham insisted.  That was Sir Edward Carson.

Mr. Britling jumped in his chair.

“But has he ever done anything?” he cried, “except embitter Ireland?”

Lady Frensham did not hear that question.  She pursued her glorious theme.  Lloyd George, who had once been worthy only of the gallows, was now the sole minister fit to put beside her hero.  He had won her heart by his condemnation of the working man.  He was the one man who was not afraid to speak out, to tell them they drank, to tell them they shirked and loafed, to tell them plainly that if defeat came to this country the blame would fall upon them!

“No!” cried Mr. Britling.

“Yes,” said Lady Frensham.  “Upon them and those who have flattered and misled them....”

And so on....

It presently became necessary for Lady Homartyn to rescue Mr. Britling from the great lady’s patriotic tramplings.  He found himself drifting into the autumnal garden—­the show of dahlias had never been so wonderful—­in the company of Raeburn and the staff officer and a small woman who was presently discovered to be remarkably well-informed.  They were all despondent.  “I think all this promiscuous blaming of people is quite the worst—­and most ominous—­thing about us just now,” said Mr. Britling after the restful pause that followed the departure from the presence of Lady Frensham.

“It goes on everywhere,” said the staff officer.

“Is it really—­honest?” said Mr. Britling.

Raeburn, after reflection, decided to answer.  “As far as it is stupid, yes.  There’s a lot of blame coming; there’s bound to be a day of reckoning, and I suppose we’ve all got an instinctive disposition to find a scapegoat for our common sins.  The Tory press is pretty rotten, and there’s a strong element of mere personal spite—­in the Churchill attacks for example.  Personal jealousy probably.  Our ‘old families’ seem to have got vulgar-spirited imperceptibly—­in