Maraton smiled.

“The people I am in the most disgrace with,” he observed, “are my own little lot.”

“That needn’t worry you,” Mr. Foley rejoined.  “Our Labour Members are not a serious body.  The forces they represent are all right, but they seem to have a perfectly devilish gift of selecting the wrong representatives. . . .  You’ll be in the House this afternoon?” Certainly!

“I shall be rather curious to see what sort of a reception they give you,” Mr. Foley continued.  “You couldn’t manage to walk in with me, I suppose?  It would mean such a headline for the Daily Oracle!”

Elisabeth glanced up from her paper.

“I am afraid, uncle,” she remarked, “that Punch was right when it said that your sense of humour would always prevent your becoming a great politician.”

“Let Punch wait until I claim the title,” Mr. Foley retorted, smiling.  “No man has ever consented to be Premier who was a great politician—­in these days, at any rate.  I doubt, even, whether our friend Maraton would be a successful Premier.  I fancy that if ever he aspires so high, it will be to the Dictatorship of the new republic.”

Maraton sighed.

“Even the Oracle,” he reminded them, “is convinced that I have no personal ambitions.”

Mr. Foley took up his hat.  He had been in high good humour throughout the interview.  Already he was looking forward to meeting his colleagues.

“Well, we’ll be off, Maraton,” he said.  “We had no right to come and disturb you at this time in the morning, only we were really anxious to book you for our quiet week in Scotland.  Change your mind about it, there’s a good fellow.  I shall be your helpless prey up there.  You could make of me what you would.”  Maraton shook his head very firmly.

“It is not possible,” he answered.  “Please do not think that I do not appreciate your hospitality—­and your kindness, Lady Elisabeth.”

She looked at him for a moment rather curiously.  There was something of reproach in her eyes; something, too, which he failed to understand.  She did not speak at all.

“Miss Thurnbrein,” Maraton begged, “will you see Mr. Foley and Lady Elisabeth out?  It sounds cowardly, doesn’t it,” he added, “but I really don’t think that I dare show myself.”

Julia rose slowly to her feet and passed towards the door, which Maraton was holding open.  She lingered outside while Maraton shook hands with his two visitors, then would have hurried on in advance, but that Elisabeth stopped her.

“Do tell me,” she asked, “you are the Miss Thurnbrein who has written so much upon woman labour, aren’t you?”

“I have written one or two articles,” Julia replied, looking straight ahead of her.

“I read one in the National Review,” Elisabeth continued, “and another in one of the evening papers.  I can’t tell you, Miss Thurnbrein, how interested I was.”