Tallente, for the first time in his life, was dining a few evenings later at Dartrey’s house in Chelsea, and he looked forward with some curiosity to this opportunity of studying his chief under different auspices.  Dartrey, notwithstanding the fact that he was a miracle of punctuality and devotion to duty, both at the offices in Parliament Street and at the House, seemed to have the gift of fading absolutely out of sight from the ken of even his closest friends when the task of the day was accomplished.  He excused himself always, courteously but finally, from accepting anything whatever in the way of social entertainment, he belonged to no clubs, and, if pressed, he frankly confessed a predilection which amounted almost to passion for solitude during those hours not actually devoted to official duties.  The invitation to dinner, therefore, was received by Tallente with some surprise.  He had grown into the habit of looking upon Dartrey as a man who had no real existence outside the routine of their daily work.  He welcomed with avidity, therefore, this opportunity of understanding a little more thoroughly Dartrey’s pleasant but elusive personality.

The house itself, situated in a Chelsea square of some repute, was small and unostentatious, but was painted a spotless white and possessed, even from the outside, an air of quiet and unassuming elegance.  A trim maid-servant opened the door and ushered him into a drawing-room of grey and silver, with a little faded blue in the silks of the French chairs.  There were a few fine-point etchings upon the walls, a small grand piano in a corner, and very little furniture, although the little there was was French of the best period.  There were no flowers and the atmosphere would have been chilly, but for the brightly burning fire.  Tallente was scarcely surprised when Dartrey’s entrance alone indicated the fact that, as was generally supposed, he was free from family ties.

“I am a little early, I am afraid,” Tallente remarked, as they shook hands.

“Admirably punctual,” the other replied.  “I shall make no apologies to you for my small party.  I have asked only Miss Miall and Miller to meet you—­just the trio of us who came to lure you out of your Devonshire paradise.”

“Miller?” Tallente repeated, with instant comprehension.

“Yes!  I was thinking, only the other day, that you scarcely see enough of Miller.”

“I see all that I want to,” was Tallente’s candid comment.

Dartrey laid his hand upon his guest’s shoulder.  In his sombre dinner garb, with low, turned-down collar and flowing black tie, his grey-black beard cut to a point, his high forehead, his straightly brushed-back hair, which still betrayed its tendency to natural curls, he looked a great deal more like an artist of the dreamy and aesthetic type than a man who had elaborated a new system of life and government.

“It is because of the feeling behind those words, Tallente,” he said, “that I have asked you to meet him here to-night.  Miller has his objectionable points, but he possesses still a great hold upon certain types of the working man.  I feel that you should appreciate that a little more thoroughly.  The politician, as you should know better than I, has no personal feelings.”