“Do you mind, Lewie, if I advise you to take it seriously?  It is really not a case for little scruples about reputation.  There are rocks ahead of me, and I want a man like you in the House more than I could make you understand.  You say you hate party politics, and I am with you, but there is no reason why you should not use them as a crutch to better work.  You are in your way an expert, and that is what we will need above all things in the next few years.  Of course, if you feel yourself bound by a promise not to oppose Stocks, then I have nothing more to say; but, unless the man is a lunatic, he will admit the justice of your case.”

“You mean that you really want me, Tommy?” said the young man, in great doubt.  “I hate the idea of fighting Stocks, and I shall most certainly be beaten.”

“That is on the knees of the gods, and as for the rest I take the responsibility.  I shall speak to Stocks myself.  It will be a sharp fight, but I see no reason why you should not win.  After all, it is your own countryside, and you are a better man than your opponent.”

“You are the serpent who has broken up this peaceful home.  I shall be miserable for a month, and the house will be divided against itself.  Arthur has promised to help Stocks, while the Manorwaters, root and branch, are pledged to support him.”

“I’ll do my best, Lewie, for old acquaintance’ sake.  It had to come sooner or later, you know, and it is as well that you should seize the favourable moment.  Now let us drop the subject for to-night.  I want to enjoy myself.”

And he rose, stretched his great arms, and wandered about the room.

To all appearance he had forgotten the very existence of things political.  Arthur, who had a contest to face shortly, was eager for advice and the odds and ends of information which defend the joints in a candidate’s harness, but the well-informed man disdained to help.  He tested the guns, gave his verdict on rods, and ranged through a cabinet of sporting requisites.  Then he fell on his host’s books, and for an hour the three were content to listen to him.  It was rarely that Wratislaw fell into such moods, but when the chance came it was not to be lightly disregarded.  A laborious youth had given him great stores of scholarship, and Lewis’s books were a curious if chaotic collection.  On the fly-leaf of a little duodecimo was an inscription from the author of Waverley, who had often made Etterick his hunting-ground.  A Dunbar had Hawthornden’s autograph, and a set of tall classic folios bore the handwriting of George Buchanan.  Lord Kames, Hume, and a score of others had dedicated works to lairds of Etterick, and the Haystouns themselves had deigned at times to court the Muse.  Lewis’s own special books-college prizes, a few modern authors, some well-thumbed poets, and a row in half a dozen languages on some matters of diplomatic interest-were crowded into a little oak bookcase which had once graced his college rooms.  Thither Wratislaw ultimately turned, dipping, browsing, reading a score of lines.