It was the last straw, this!  Peter Dale’s voice shook with passion.

“It’s been a promise,” he shouted, “for this many a year!  A sop to the people it was, at the last election.  There’s one of us ought to be in the Cabinet—­one of us, I say, not a carpetbagger!”

“We’re the wrong type of man,” Graveling broke in sarcastically.  “That’s what he said.  He was heard to say it to the Home Secretary.  The wrong type of man he called us.”

Maraton suddenly changed his attitude.  He was momentarily conscious of Julia listening, from her place in the background, to every word with strained attention.  After all, these men had doubtless done good work according to their capacity.

“My friends,” he protested, “why do we bandy words like this?  Perhaps it is my fault.  I have had a long and tiring day, and I must confess that I to some extent resented a Labour man being set up against me, without a word of explanation.  You mean well, all of you, I am sure, even if we can’t quite see the same way.  Don’t let’s quarrel.  I am not used to Parties.  I can’t serve under any one.  My vote’s my own, and I don’t like the political juggery of selling it here and there for a quid pro quo.  We may sit on opposite benches, but I give you my word that there isn’t anything in the world which brings me into political life or will keep me there, save the welfare of the people.  Now shake hands, all of you.  Let us have a drink together and part friends.”

Peter Dale shook his head doggedly.  He had risen to his feet—­a man filled with slow burning but bitter anger.

“No, sir!” he declared.  “Me and my mates have stood for the people for this many a year, and we’ve no fancy for a fine gentleman springing up like a Jack-in-the-box from somewhere else in the House, without any reference to us, and yet calling himself and advertising himself as the champion of our cause.  Outside Parliament we can’t stop you.  The Trades’ Union men think more of you, maybe, than they do of us.  But inside you can plough your own furrow, and for my part, when you’re on your legs, the smoking-room will be plenty good enough for me!”

“And for the rest of us!” Graveling agreed fiercely.  “If you’re so keen on being independent, you shall see what you can do on your own.”

Dale was already on his way to the door, but Maraton checked him.

“Mr. Dale,” he said, “you are an older man than I am, a man of much experience.  I beg you to reflect.  The feelings which prompt you towards this action are unworthy.  If you attempt to send me to Coventry, you will simply bring ridicule upon a Party which should be the broadest-minded in the House.”

Mr. Dale turned around.  He had already crammed his black, wide-awake hat on to his head.  Like all men whose outlook upon life is limited, the idea of ridicule was hateful to him.

“You mark my words, young man,” he growled.  “The one that makes a fool of himself is the one that’s going to play the toady to a master who will send him to heel with a kick, every time he opens his mouth to bark!  Go your own way.  I’m only sorry you ever set foot in this country.”