What’s the good of the saner policy that Mr. Churchill talks about, if you can’t trust anyone with your money, and have to live on the capital?  If you can’t sleep at night for thinking that you may be in the workhouse to-morrow—­like Slingsby?  The first duty of men in Mr. Churchill’s position—­as I see it—­is to see that we’re able to be confident of honest dealing.  That’s what we want, not Greenlands.  That’s how we all feel, and you know it, too, or else you, a great lady, wouldn’t stop to talk to a man like me.  And, mind you, I’m true blue, always have been and always shall be, and, if it was a matter of votes, I’d give mine to Mr. Churchill to-morrow.  But there’s a many that wouldn’t, and there’s a many that believe the hintings.’”

My lady stopped and sighed from a broad bosom.  “What could I say?” she went on again.  “I know Mr. Churchill and I like him—­and everyone that knows him likes him.  I’m one of the stalwarts, mind you; I’m not for giving in to popular clamour; I’m for the ‘saner policy,’ like Churchill.  But, as the man said:  ’There’s a many that believe the hintings.’  And I almost wish Churchill....  However, you understand what I meant when I said that one had had to suffer.”

“Oh, I understand,” I said.  I was beginning to.  “And Churchill?” I asked later, “he gives no sign of relenting?”

“Would you have him?” she asked sharply; “would you make him if you could?” She had an air of challenging.  “I’m for the ‘saner policy!’ cost what it may.  He owes it to himself to sacrifice himself, if it comes to that.”

“I’m with you too,” I answered, “over boot and spur.”  Her enthusiasm was contagious, and unnecessary.

“Oh, he’ll stick,” she began again after consultation with the parasol fringe.  “You’ll hear him after a minute.  It’s a field day to-day.  You’ll miss the other heavy guns if you stop with me.  I do it ostentatiously—­wait until they’ve done.  They’re all trembling; all of them.  My husband will be on the platform—­trembling too.  He is a type of them.  All day long and at odd moments at night I talk to him—­out-talk him and silence him.  What’s the state of popular feeling to him?  He’s for the country, not the town—­this sort of thing has nothing to do with him.  It’s a matter to be settled by Jews in the City.  Well, he sees it at night, and then in the morning the papers undo all my work.  He begins to talk about his seat—­which I got for him.  I’ve been the ’voice of the county’ for years now.  Well, it’ll soon be a voice without a county....  What is it?  ‘The old order changeth.’  So, I’ve arranged it that I shall wait until the trembling big-wigs have stuttered their speeches out, and then I’m going to sail down the centre aisle and listen to Churchill with visible signs of approval.  It won’t do much to-day, but there was a time when it would have changed the course of an election....  Ah, there’s Effie’s young man.  It’s time.”

She rose and marched, with the air of going to a last sacrifice, across the deserted sward toward a young man who was passing under the calico flag of the gateway.