Mr. G. (more in sorrow than in anger).  There it is, yer see.  Yer afraid.  Afraid o’ ’earing the truth.  Carn’t trust yerself to listen to both sides.  But I don’t despair of yer yet.  See ’ere; is it ’Ome Rule that separates us?  ’Cos, if so, it needn’t.  QUELCH don’t care no more for ’Ome Rule than that ’ere penwiper do, between you and me!  On’y, yer see, he carn’t say so at present, d’yer ketch my meanin’? (Lady N. rings the bell in despair.) Oh, thankee, Mum, if you are so kind, I’ll take whatever yer goin’ to ’ave yerself, I ain’t partickler.

[Illustration:  NEW FACES IN THE HOUSE OF COMMONS.

(According to the Portraits that have appeared in the Illustrated Papers.)]

Lady N. (as the Butler appears).  CLARKSON, show this—­this gentleman the way out.

Mr. G. Don’t you trouble, old pal, I can find it for myself. (To Lady N.) I b’lieve, if the truth was known, you’re comin’ round already, Mum.  I’ll tell yer what I’ll do.  I’ll leave some o’ these ’ere little pamphlicks, as you might git your good man to run his eye over. “Why I am a Radikil,” “The Infamy of Tory Gov’ment,” “’Ow we are Robbed!” &c.  And ’ere’s a picter-poster—­“The ’Orrers of Coercion under the Brutal BALFOUR!” Yer might put it up in yer front winder—­it don’t commit yer to nothing, yer know!—­it’ll amuse the kids, if you’ve any family.

Clarkson (in his ear).  Will you walk downstairs quietly, or shall I have to pitch you?

Mr. G. (roused at last).  What, I’m to cop the push, am I?  An’ what for, eh?  What ‘ave I done more than you swells ha’ bin doin’ ever since the Elections started? (To Lady N.) You come pokin’ into our ‘ouses, without waitin’ to be invited, arskin’ questions and soft-sawderin’, and leavin’ tracks and coloured picters—­and we put up with it all.  But as soon as one of us tries it on, what do yer do?—­ring for the Chucker-out!  Ah, and reason enough, too—­yer know yer’ll get beaten on the argyments! (Here he is gently but firmly led out by CLARKSON, and concludes his observations on the’ stairs outside.) Stuck-up, pudden’-’eaded fossils!... battenin’ on the People’s brains!... your time’ll come some day!...  Wait till QUELCH ‘ears o’ this! &c., &c.

Lady N. (alone).  Thank goodness he’s gone!—­but what an ordeal!  I really must part with CLARKSON.  And—­whatever the Primrose League Council may say—­I shall have to tell them I must give up canvassing.  I don’t think I can do it any more—­after this!

* * * * *

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.