“I believe he goes to bed in it.  Oh, he’s an awful ass!  It was he who said at a public function ’The Mayor of Wymington must be like Caesar’s wife—­all things to all men!’ Oh, he’s a colossal ass!  And his conceit!  My word!”

“You needn’t expatiate on it,” said I.  “I who speak have suffered much at the hands of Sir Gerald Macnaughton.”

“If he did get into Parliament he’d expect an armchair to be put for him next to the Speaker.  Really, Lola, you never saw such a chap.  If there was any one else up against me I wouldn’t mind.  Anyway, I’m running down to Wymington to-morrow to interview the committee.  And if they choose me, then it’ll be a case of ’Lord don’t help me and don’t help the b’ar, and you’ll see the derndest best b’ar fight that ever was.’  I’ll make things hum in Wymington!”

He went on eagerly to explain how he would make things hum.  For the moment he had forgotten his enchantress who, understanding nothing of platforms and planks and electioneering machinery, smiled with pensive politeness at the fire.  Here was the Dale that I knew and loved, boyish, impetuous, slangy, enthusiastic.  His dark eyes flashed, and he threw back his head and laughed, as he enunciated his brilliant ideas for capturing the constituency.

“When I was working for you, I made love to half the women in the place.  You never knew that, you dear old stick.  Now I’m going in on my own account I’ll make love to the whole crowd.  You won’t mind, Lola, will you?  There’s safety in numbers.  And when I have made love to them one by one I’ll get ’em all together and make love to the conglomerate mass!  And then I’ll rake up all the prettiest women in London and get ’em down there to humbug the men—­”

“Lady Kynnersley will doubtless be there,” said I; “and I don’t quite see her—­”

He broke in with a laugh:  “Oh! the mater!  I’ll fix up her job all right.  She’ll just love it, won’t she?  And then I know a lot of silly asses with motor-cars who’ll come down.  They can’t talk for cob-nuts, and think the Local Option has something to do with vivisection, and have a vague idea that champagne will be cheaper if we get Tariff Reform—­but they’ll make a devil of a noise at meetings and tote people round the country in their cars holding banners with ‘Vote for Kynnersley’ on them.  That’s a sound idea, isn’t it?”

I gravely commended the statesmanlike sagacity of his plan of campaign, and promised to write as soon as I got home to one or two members of the committee whom I suspected of pro-Macnaughton leanings.

“I do hope they’ll adopt you!” I cried fervently.

“So do I,” murmured Lola in her low notes.

“If they don’t,” said Dale, “I’ll ask Raggles to give me an unpaid billet somewhere.  But,” he added, with a sigh, “that will be an awful rotten game in comparison.”

“I’m afraid you won’t make Raggles hum,” said I.

He laughed, rose and straddled across the hearthrug, his back to the fire.