Mrs. Liversedge was obviously Denzil Quarrier’s sister; she had his eyes and his nose—­not uncomely features.  It did not appear that her seven children were robust at their mother’s expense; she ate with undisguised appetite, laughed readily (just showing excellent teeth), and kept a shapely figure, clad with simple becomingness.  Her age was about eight-and-thirty, that of her husband forty-five.  This couple—­if any in England—­probably knew the meaning of happiness.  Neither had experienced narrow circumstances, and the future could but confirm their security from sordid cares.  Even if seven more children were added to their family, all would be brought up amid abundance, and sent forth into the world as well equipped for its struggles as the tenderest heart could desire.  Father and mother were admirably matched; they knew each other perfectly, thought the same thoughts on all essential matters, exchanged the glances of an absolute and unshakeable confidence.

Seeing him thus at the end of his table, one would not have thought Mr. Liversedge a likely man to stand forth on political platforms and appeal to the populace of the borough for their electoral favour.  He looked modest and reticent; his person was the reverse of commanding.  A kind and thoughtful man, undoubtedly; but in his eye was no gleam of ambition, and it seemed doubtful whether he would care to trouble himself much about questions of public policy.  Granted his position and origin, it was natural enough that he should take a stand on the Liberal side, but it could hardly be expected that he should come up to Mr. Chown’s ideal of a Progressive leader.

He was talking lightly on the subject with his brother-in-law.

“I should have thought,” he said, “that William Glazzard might have had views that way.  He’s a man with no ties and, I should say, too much leisure.”

“Oh,” exclaimed Mrs. Liversedge, “the idea of his getting up to make speeches!  It always seems to me as if he found it a trouble even to talk.  His brother would be far more likely, wouldn’t he, Denzil?”

“What, Eustace Glazzard?” replied Quarrier.  “He regards Parliament and everything connected with it with supreme contempt.  Suggest the thing when he comes this evening, and watch his face.”

“What is he doing?” Mr. Liversedge asked.

“Collecting pictures, playing the fiddle, gazing at sunflowers, and so on.  He’ll never do anything else.”

“How contradictory you are in speaking about him!” said his sister.  “One time you seem to admire and like him extremely, and another” ——­

“Why, so I do.  A capital fellow!  He’s weak, that’s all.  I don’t mean weak in the worst way, you know; a more honourable and trustworthy man doesn’t live.  But—­well, he’s rather womanish, I suppose.”

Mrs. Liversedge laughed.

“Many thanks!  It’s always so pleasing to a woman to hear that comparison.  Do you mean he reminds you of Mrs. Wade?”