“Indeed it isn’t easy to believe,” said Dyce, in the tone of compliment.

“I always thought of a London season,” pursued May, “as mere frivolity.  Of course there is a great deal of that.  But here one sees only cultured and serious people; it makes one feel how much hope there is for the world, in spite of everything.  The common Socialists talk dreadful nonsense about Society; of course it’s mere ignorance.”

“To be sure,” Lashmar assented, with inward mirth.  “Their views are inevitably so narrow.—­How long do you stay in town?”

“I’m afraid my aunt’s health will oblige me to return to Rivenoak very soon.  She has been seeing doctors.  I don’t know what they tell her, but I notice that she isn’t quite herself this last day or two.”

“Wonderful old lady, isn’t she?” Dyce exclaimed.

“Oh, wonderful!  You have known her for a long time, haven’t you?”

“No, not very long.  But we have talked so much, and agree so well in our views, that I think of her as quite an old friend.—­What can I get you?  Do you like iced coffee?”

Dyce seated her, and tended upon her as though no such thing as a “method” with women had ever entered his mind.  His demeanour was lamentably old-fashioned.  What it lacked in natural grace, Miss Tomalin was not critical enough to perceive.

“How nice it will be,” she suddenly remarked, “when you are in Parliament!  Of course you will invite us to tea on the terrace, and all that kind of thing.”

“I’m sure I hope I shall have the chance.  My election is by no means a certainty, you know.  The Tories are very strong at Hollingford.”

“Oh, but we’re all going to work for you.  When we get back to Rivenoak, I shall begin a serious campaign.  I could never live without some serious work of the social kind, and I look upon it as a great opportunity for civilising people.  They must be taught that it is morally wrong to vote for such a man as Robb, and an absolute duty of citizenship to vote for you.  How I shall enjoy it!”

“You are very kind!”

“Oh, don’t think of it in that way!” exclaimed Miss Tomalin.  “I have always thought more of principles than of persons.  It isn’t in my nature to take anything up unless I feel an absolute conviction that it is for the world’s good.  At Northampton I often offended people I liked by what they called my obstinacy when a principle was at stake.  I don’t want to praise myself, but I really can say that it is my nature to be earnest and thorough and disinterested.”

“Of that I am quite sure,” said Lashmar, fervently.

“And—­to let me tell you—­it is such a pleasure to feel that my opportunities will be so much greater than formerly.”  May was growing very intimate, but still kept her air of dignity, with its touch of condescension.  “At Northampton, you know, I hadn’t very much scope; now it will be different.  What an important thing social position is!  What power for good it gives one!”