While she was reading it, there came a knock at the door, and Barrington Erle was shown upstairs.  Mr. Kennedy had given no orders against Sunday visitors, but had simply said that Sunday visiting was not to his taste.  Barrington, however, was Lady Laura’s cousin, and people must be very strict if they can’t see their cousins on Sunday.  Lady Laura soon lost her headache altogether in the animation of discussing the chances of the new Reform Bill with the Prime Minister’s private secretary; and had left her chair, and was standing by the table with the novel in her hand, protesting this and denying that, expressing infinite confidence in Mr. Monk, and violently denouncing Mr. Turnbull, when her husband returned from church and came up into the drawing-room.  Lady Laura had forgotten her headache altogether, and had in her composition none of that thoughtfulness of hypocrisy which would have taught her to moderate her political feeling at her husband’s return.

“I do declare,” she said, “that if Mr. Turnbull opposes the Government measure now, because he can’t have his own way in everything, I will never again put my trust in any man who calls himself a popular leader.”

“You never should,” said Barrington Erle.

“That’s all very well for you, Barrington, who are an aristocratic Whig of the old official school, and who call yourself a Liberal simply because Fox was a Liberal a hundred years ago.  My heart’s in it.”

“Heart should never have anything to do with politics; should it?” said Erle, turning round to Mr. Kennedy.

Mr. Kennedy did not wish to discuss the matter on a Sunday, nor yet did he wish to say before Barrington Erle that he thought it wrong to do so.  And he was desirous of treating his wife in some way as though she were an invalid,—­that she thereby might be, as it were, punished; but he did not wish to do this in such a way that Barrington should be aware of the punishment.

“Laura had better not disturb herself about it now,” he said.

“How is a person to help being disturbed?” said Lady Laura, laughing.

“Well, well; we won’t mind all that now,” said Mr. Kennedy, turning away.  Then he took up the novel which Lady Laura had just laid down from her hand, and, having looked at it, carried it aside, and placed it on a book-shelf which was remote from them.  Lady Laura watched him as he did this, and the whole course of her husband’s thoughts on the subject was open to her at once.  She regretted the novel, and she regretted also the political discussion.  Soon afterwards Barrington Erle went away, and the husband and wife were alone together.

“I am glad that your head is so much better,” said he.  He did not intend to be severe, but he spoke with a gravity of manner which almost amounted to severity.

“Yes; it is,” she said, “Barrington’s coming in cheered me up.”

“I am sorry that you should have wanted cheering.”