Save for Lord Saltoun, it was a family party of Fishers, for the only other distinguished stranger had just departed after dinner, leaving the rest to their coffee and cigars.  This had been a figure of some interest—­a young Cambridge man named Eric Hughes who was the rising hope of the party of Reform, to which the Fisher family, along with their friend Saltoun, had long been at least formally attached.  The personality of Hughes was substantially summed up in the fact that he talked eloquently and earnestly through the whole dinner, but left immediately after to be in time for an appointment.  All his actions had something at once ambitious and conscientious; he drank no wine, but was slightly intoxicated with words.  And his face and phrases were on the front page of all the newspapers just then, because he was contesting the safe seat of Sir Francis Verner in the great by-election in the west.  Everybody was talking about the powerful speech against squirarchy which he had just delivered; even in the Fisher circle everybody talked about it except Horne Fisher himself who sat in a corner, lowering over the fire.

“We jolly well have to thank him for putting some new life into the old party,” Ashton Fisher was saying.  “This campaign against the old squires just hits the degree of democracy there is in this county.  This act for extending county council control is practically his bill; so you may say he’s in the government even before he’s in the House.”

“One’s easier than the other,” said Harry, carelessly.  “I bet the squire’s a bigger pot than the county council in that county.  Verner is pretty well rooted; all these rural places are what you call reactionary.  Damning aristocrats won’t alter it.”

“He damns them rather well,” observed Ashton.  “We never had a better meeting than the one in Barkington, which generally goes Constitutional.  And when he said, ’Sir Francis may boast of blue blood; let us show we have red blood,’ and went on to talk about manhood and liberty, the room simply rose at him.”

“Speaks very well,” said Lord Saltoun, gruffly, making his only contribution to the conversation so far.

Then the almost equally silent Horne Fisher suddenly spoke, without taking his brooding eyes off the fire.

“What I can’t understand,” he said, “is why nobody is ever slanged for the real reason.”

“Hullo!” remarked Harry, humorously, “you beginning to take notice?”

“Well, take Verner,” continued Horne Fisher.  “If we want to attack Verner, why not attack him?  Why compliment him on being a romantic reactionary aristocrat?  Who is Verner?  Where does he come from?  His name sounds old, but I never heard of it before, as the man said of the Crucifixion.  Why talk about his blue blood?  His blood may be gamboge yellow with green spots, for all anybody knows.  All we know is that the old squire, Hawker, somehow ran through his money (and his second wife’s, I suppose, for she was rich enough), and sold the estate to a man named Verner.  What did he make his money in?  Oil?  Army contracts?”