Beatrice affected to pay no heed to this anecdote.

‘What is your side in politics?’ she asked Wilfrid.  ’Here we are all either Blues or Yellows.’

‘What do they represent?’ Wilfrid inquired.

‘Oh, you shouldn’t ask that,’ said Mrs. Baxendale.  ’Yellow is yellow, and Blue, blue; nothing else in the world.  I think it an excellent idea to use colours.  Liberal and Conservative suggest ideas; names, therefore, quite out of place in Dunfield politics—­or any other politics, I dare say, if the truth were known.  My husband is a Yellow.  It pleases him to call himself a Liberal, or else a Radical.  He may have been a few months ago; now he’s a mere Yellow.  I tell him he’s in serious danger of depriving himself of two joys; in another month a cloudless sky and the open sea will he detestable to him.’

‘But what are you, Mr. Athel?’ Beatrice asked.  ’A Liberal or a Conservative?  I should really find it hard to guess.’

‘In a Yellow house,’ he replied, ‘I am certainly Yellow.’

‘Beatrice is far from being so complaisant,’ said Mrs. Baxendale.  ’She detests our advanced views.’

‘Rather, I know nothing of them,’ the girl replied.  The quiet air with which she expressed her indifference evinced a measure of spiritual pride rather in excess of that she was wont to show.  Indeed, her manner throughout the conversation was a little distant to both her companions.  If she jested with Wilfrid it was with the idleness of one condescending to subjects below the plane of her interests.  To her aunt she was rather courteous than affectionate.

Whilst they still sat over tea, Mr. Baxendale came in.  Like his wife, he was of liberal proportions, and he had a face full of practical sagacity; if anything, he looked too wide awake, a fault of shrewd men, constitutionally active, whose imagination plays little part in their lives.  He wore an open frock-coat, with much expanse of shirt-front.  The fore part of his head was bald, and the hair on each side was brushed forward over his ears in a manner which gave him a singular appearance.  His bearing was lacking in self-possession; each of his remarks was followed by a short laugh, deprecatory, apologetic.  It seemed impossible to him to remain in a state of bodily repose, even with a cup of tea in his hand he paced the room.  Constantly he consulted his watch—­not that he had any special concern with the hour, but from a mere habit of nervousness.

He welcomed the visitor with warmth, at the same time obviously suppressing a smile of other than merely polite significance:  then he began at once to speak of electioneering matters, and did so, pacing the carpet, for the next half hour.  Wilfrid listened with such show of interest as he could command; his thoughts were elsewhere, and weariness was beginning to oppress him.