With sullen acquiescence the supporters of Mr. Mumbray and “Progressive Conservatism”—­what phrase is not good enough for the lips of party?—­recognized that they must needs vote for the old name.  Dissension at such a moment was more dangerous than an imbecile candidate.  Mr. Sam Quarrier had declared that rather than give his voice for Mumbray he would remain neutral.  “Old W.-B. is good enough for a figure-head; he signifies something.  If we are to be beaten, let it be on the old ground.”  That defeat was likely enough, the more intelligent Conservatives could not help seeing.  Many of them (Samuel among the number) had no enthusiasm for Beaconsfield, and la haute politique as the leader understood it, but they liked still less the principles represented by Councillor Chown and his vociferous regiment.  So the familiar bills were once more posted about the streets, and once more the Tory canvassers urged men to vote for Welwyn-Baker in the name of Church and State.

At Salutary Mount (this was the name of the ex-Mayor’s residence) personal disappointment left no leisure for lamenting the prospects of Conservatism.  Mr. Mumbray shut himself up in the room known as his “study.”  Mrs. Mumbray stormed at her servants, wrangled with her children, and from her husband held apart in sour contempt—­ feeble, pompous creature that he was!  With such an opportunity, and unable to make use of it!  But for her, he would never even have become Mayor.  She was enraged at having yielded in the matter of Serena’s betrothal.  Glazzard had fooled them; he was an unprincipled adventurer, with an eye only to the fortune Serena would bring him!

“If you marry that man,” she asseverated, a propos of a discussion with her daughter on a carpet which had worn badly, “I shall have nothing whatever to do with the affair—­nothing!”

Serena drew apart and kept silence.

“You hear what I say?  You understand me?”

“You mean that you won’t be present at the wedding?”

“I do!” cried her mother, careless what she said so long as it sounded emphatic.  “You shall take all the responsibility.  If you like to throw yourself away on a bald-headed, dissipated man—­as I know he is—­it shall be entirely your own doing.  I wash my hands of it—­and that’s the last word you will hear from me on the subject.”

In consequence of which assertion she vilified Glazzard and Serena for three-quarters of an hour, until her daughter, who had sat in abstraction, slowly rose and withdrew.

Alone in her bedroom, Serena shed many tears, as she had often done of late.  The poor girl was miserably uncertain how to act.  She foresaw that home would be less than ever a home to her after this accumulation of troubles, and indeed she had made up her mind to leave it, but whether as a wife or as an independent woman she could not decide.  “On her own responsibility”—­yes, that was the one thing certain.  And what experience had she