“Many things may happen before then,” Tallente replied, with a little affirmative nod.  “Dartrey may decide that I am too expensive a luxury and make friends with Miller.”

“I don’t think that’s likely,” Horlock pronounced.  “Dartrey is a fine fellow, although he is not a great politician.  He is out to make a radical and solid change in the government of this country and he knows very well that Miller’s gang will only be a dead weight around his neck.  He’d rather wait until he has weaned away a few more votes—­even get rid of Miller if he can—­and stick to you.”

“I think you are right,” Tallente said.  “I am keeping the Democrats from a present triumph, but if through me they shake themselves free from what I call the little Labourites, I think things will pan out better for them in the long run.”

“And in the meantime,” Horlock went on, lighting a cigar and passing his case to Tallente, “I must give you the credit of playing a magnificent lone hand.  I expected to see Miller fall down in a fit when you went for him in the House.  If only his army of adherents could have heard that little duel, I think you’d have won straight through!”

“Unfortunately they couldn’t,” Tallente sighed, “and it’s so hard to capture the attention, to reach the inner understanding, of a great mixed community.”

“It’s a curious thing about Englishmen,” Horlock reflected, “especially the Englishman who has to vote.  The most eloquent appeals on paper often leave him unmoved.  A perfectly convincing pamphlet he lays down with the feeling that no doubt it’s all right but there must be another side.  It’s the spoken words that tell, every time.  What about Miller’s election next week?”

“A great deal depends upon that,” Tallente replied.  “Miller himself says that it is a certainty.  On the other hand, Saunderson is going to be proposed, and, with Dartrey’s influence, should have a pretty good backing.”

They travelled on in silence for a short time.  Tallente looked idly through the rain-streaming window at the block of traffic, the hurrying passers-by, the cheerful warmth of the shops and restaurants.

“You take life too seriously, Tallente,” his companion said, a little abruptly.

“Do I?” Tallente answered, with a thin smile.

“You do indeed.  Look at me.  I haven’t a line on my face as compared with yours and I’ve held together a patchwork Government for five years.  I don’t know when I may be kicked out and I know perfectly well that the Government which succeeds mine is going to undo all I have done and is going to establish a state of things in this country which I consider nothing short of revolutionary.  I am not worrying about it, Tallente.  The fog of Downing Street stinks sometimes in my nostrils, but I have a little country house—­you must come and see me there some day—­down in Buckinghamshire, one of these long, low bungalow types, you know, with big gardens, two tennis courts, and a golf course just across the river.  My wife spends most of her time there now and every week-end, when I go down, I think what a fool I am to waste my time trying to hold a reluctant nation to principles they are thoroughly sick of.  Tallente, you can turn me out whenever you like.  The day I settle down for two or three months’ rest is going to be one of the happiest of my life.”