“They mean to report it in full?” said Phyllis.  She had an ample experience of the decimation of his questions as well as speeches by the members of the press gallery.  They had reduced it to a science.

“I am much mistaken if they don’t comment on it as well,” said her father.  “Poor Apthomas! he alone sat glum and mute while everyone around him was convulsed.”

“I hope that Mr. Courtland will not feel hurt at what has occurred,” said Phyllis doubtfully.

“Mr. Courtland?  Who is Mr. Courtland?  What has Mr. Courtland to say to the matter?  What business is it of his, I should like to know.”

“Well, considering that he was the original subject of the questions, though I must confess that he didn’t remain long so, I don’t think it altogether unreasonable to wonder what he will think about the whole episode,” remarked Phyllis.

“Ah, you always do take an original view of such incidents,” said her father indulgently.  “It is so like a woman to try and drag poor Courtland into the business.  You ought to know better than to fancy that any interest attaches to the original subject of a question in the House.  You’ll be suggesting next that some credit should be given to the youths who pass brilliant examinations in things, and that all should not be absorbed by their grinders.”

“I’m not so silly as that, papa,” said she.  “No; but Mr. Courtland——­Ah, never mind.”

He did not mind.

It so happened, however, that several of the newspapers which commented on the questions and counter-questions the next day introduced the name of Mr. Herbert Courtland and his explorations; though, of course, most attention was directed to what Mr. Ayrton’s party called the brilliant, and the other party the flippant, methods of Mr. Ayrton.  His reference to the New Guinea pig some thought a trifle too personal to be in good taste, but if politicians refrained from personalities and were punctilious in matters of taste, what chance would they have of “scoring,” and where would the caricaturists be?  The reputation of a politician is steadily built up nowadays, not by consistency, certainly; not by brilliant rhetoric; not even by the unscrupulous exercise of a faculty for organizing impromptu “scenes,” but by the wearing of a necktie, or a boot, or a waistcoat that is susceptible of caricature.  A very ordinary young man has before now been lifted into fame by the twists of his mustache, and another of less than mediocre ability has been prevented from sinking in the flood of forgetfulness by the kindly efforts of a caricaturist who supported him by a simple lock on his scalp.  Thus it was that Mr. Apthomas found himself famous before a week had passed, through the circumstance of being represented in the leading journal of caricature as a guinea pig, flying, with the spoil of bubble boards of directors under his arm, from the attack of a number of quaint-looking mammals wearing collars inscribed “ACCURACY,” “CORRECT BALANCE SHEETS,” “LEGITIMATE SPECULATIONS,” and other phrases that suggested the need for the old guinea pig to give way to a new breed.  Underneath the picture was printed a portion of the counter-question of Mr. Ayrton, and opposite to it were some verses with a jingling refrain that everyone could remember, and which everyone quoted during the next few days.