“I was down there myself last Sunday.  I talked politics with the local wiseacres, and—­do you know, it has made me think of you ever since?”

“How so?”

Mr. Stark consulted his watch.

“I’m at leisure for just nineteen minutes.  If you care to sit down, I have an idea I should like to put before you.”

The visitor seated himself and crossed his legs.  His countenance gave small promise of attention.

“You know,” resumed Mr. Stark, leaning forward and twiddling his thumbs, “that they’re hoping to get rid of Welwyn-Baker at the next election?”

“What of that?”

“Toby Liversedge talks of coming forward—­but that won’t do.”

“Probably not.”

The solicitor bent still more and tapped his friend’s knee.

“Glazzard, here is your moment.  Here is your chance of getting what you want.  Liversedge is reluctant to stand; I know that for certain.  To a more promising man he’ll yield with pleasure.—­St! st! listen to me!—­you are that man.  Go down; see Toby; see the wiseacres and wire-pullers; get your name in vogue!  It’s cut out for you.  Act now, or never again pretend that you want a chance.”

A smile of disdain settled upon Glazzard’s lips, but his eyes had lost their vacancy.

“On the Radical side?” he asked, mockingly.  “For Manchester and Brummagem?”

“For Parliament, my dear boy!  For Westminster, St. Stephen’s, distinction, a career!  I should perhaps have thought of your taking Welwyn-Baker’s place, but there are many reasons against it.  You would lose the support of your brother and all his friends.  Above all, Polterham will go Liberal—­mark my prediction!”

“I doubt it.”

“I haven’t time to give you all my reasons.  Dine with me this evening, will you?”

“Can’t.  Engaged to Quarrier.”

“All right!” said the latter.  “To-morrow, then?”

“Yes, I will dine to-morrow.”

Mr. Stark jumped up.

“Think of it.  I can’t talk longer now; there’s the voice of a client
I’m expecting.  Eight sharp tomorrow!”

Glazzard took his leave.

CHAPTER III

Like so many other gentlemen whose function in the world remains indefinite, chiefly because of the patrimony they have inherited, Denzil Quarrier had eaten his dinners, and been called to the Bar; he went so far in specification as to style himself Equity barrister.  But the Courts had never heard his voice.  Having begun the studies, he carried them through just for consistency, but long before bowing to the Benchers of his Inn he foresaw that nothing practical would come of it.  This was his second futile attempt to class himself with a recognized order of society.  Nay, strictly speaking, the third.  The close of his thirteenth year had seen him a pupil at Polterham Grammar School; not an unpromising pupil by any means,