Mr. Bullsom smiled and rubbed the carriage window with the cuff of his coat.  He was very hungry.

“Oh, well, a politician has to trim a little, you know,” he remarked.  “Votes he must have, and Henslow has a very good idea how to get them.  Here we are, thank goodness.”  The carriage had turned up a short drive, and deposited them before the door of a highly ornate villa.  Mr. Bullsom led the way indoors, and himself took charge of his guest’s coat and hat.  Then he opened the door of the drawing-room.

“Mrs. Bullsom and the girls,” he remarked, urbanely, “will be delighted to see you.  Come in!”

CHAPTER II

THE BULLSOM FAMILY AT HOME

There were fans upon the wall, and much bric-a-brac of Oriental shape but Brummagem finish, a complete suite of drawing-room furniture, incandescent lights of fierce brilliancy, and a pianola.  Mrs. Peter Bullsom, stout and shiny in black silk and a chatelaine, was dozing peacefully in a chair, with the latest novel from the circulating library in her lap; whilst her two daughters, in evening blouses, which were somehow suggestive of the odd elevenpence, were engrossed in more serious occupation.  Louise, the elder, whose budding resemblance to her mother was already a protection against the over-amorous youths of the town, was reading a political speech in the Times.  Selina, who had sandy hair, a slight figure, and was considered by her family the essence of refinement, was struggling with a volume of Cowper, who had been recommended to her by a librarian with a sense of humour, as a poet unlikely to bring a blush into her virginal cheeks.  Mr. Bullsom looked in upon his domestic circle with pardonable pride, and with a little flourish introduced his guest.

“Mrs. Bullsom,” he said, “this is my young friend, Kingston Brooks.  My two daughters, sir, Louise and Selina.”  The ladies were gracious, but had the air of being taken by surprise, which, considering Mr. Bullsom’s parting words a few hours ago, seemed strange.

“We’ve had a great meeting,” Mr. Bullsom remarked, sidling towards the hearthrug, and with his thumbs already stealing towards the armholes of his waistcoat, “a great meeting, my dears.  Not that I am surprised!  Oh, no!  As I said to Padgett, when he insisted that I should take the chair, ‘Padgett,’ I said, ’mark my words, we’re going to surprise the town.  Mr. Henslow may not be the most popular candidate we’ve ever had, but he’s on the right side, and those who think Radicalism has had its day in Medchester will be amazed.’  And so they have been.  I’ve dropped a few hints during my speeches at the ward meetings lately, and Mr. Brooks, though he’s new at the work, did his best, and I can tell you the result was a marvel.  The hall was packed—­simply packed.  When I rose to speak there wasn’t an empty place or chair to be seen.”

“Dear me!” Mrs. Bullsom remarked, affably.  “Supper is quite ready, my love.”