“What cheer?  A triumph already?”

“I think so, Denzil; I really think so.  Mrs. Powell has promised me to do her very best with her husband.  Oh, if you could have heard our conversation!  I hadn’t thought it possible for any one to be so ignorant of the simplest political facts.  One thing that she said—­ I was talking about war, and suddenly she asked me:  ’Do you think it likely, Mrs. Quarrier, that there would be an inscription?’ For a moment I couldn’t see what she meant.  ‘An inscription?’ ’Yes; if there’s any danger of that, and—­my four boys growing up!’ Then, of course, I understood.  Fortunately, she was so very much in earnest that I had no temptation to smile.”

“And did you encourage her alarm?”

“I felt I had no right to do that.  To avoid repeating the word, I said that I didn’t think that system would ever find favour in England.  At the same time, it was quite certain that our army would have to be greatly strengthened if this war-fever went on.  Oh, we had an endless talk—­and she was certainly impressed with my arguments.”

“Bravo!  Why, this is something like!”

“You can’t think what courage it has given me!  To-morrow I shall go to Mrs. Clifford—­yes, I shall.  She is far more formidable; but I want to try my strength.”

“Ho, ho!  What a pugnacious Lily—­a sword-Lily!  You ought to have had an heroic name—­Deborah, or Joan, or Portia!  Your eyes gleam like beacons.”

“I feel more contented with myself.—­Oh, I am told that Mrs. Wade called this afternoon?”

“Yes; anxious to see you.  Burning with wrath against female Toryism.  She was astonished when I told her of your expedition.”

Lilian laughed merrily.  Thereupon dinner was announced, and they left the room hand in hand.

That evening it was rumoured throughout the town that Mr. Welwyn-Baker had telegraphed a resolve not to offer himself for re-election.  In a committee-room at the Constitutional Literary Society was held an informal meeting of Conservatives, but no one of them had definite intelligence to communicate.  Somebody had told somebody else that Hugh Welwyn-Baker held that important telegram from his father; that was all.  Mr. Mumbray’s hopes rose high.  On the morrow, at another meeting rather differently constituted (miserable lack of organization still evident among the Tories), it was made known on incontestable authority that the sitting Member would offer himself for re-election.  Mr. Mumbray and his supporters held high language.  “It would be party suicide,” they went about repeating.  With such a man as Denzil Quarrier on the Radical side, they must have a new and a strong candidate!  But all was confusion; no one could take the responsibility of acting.