They all laughed, and Stella pulled down her lengthening petticoats with an air of great offence, but John Murchison shook his head.

“If they manage it, they will be clever,” he said.

“Talking of Lancashire,” said Williams, “there are some funny fellows over there writing in the Press against a tax on foreign cotton because it’s going to ruin Lancashire.  And at this very minute thousands of looms are shut down in Lancashire because of the high price of cotton produced by an American combine—­and worse coming, sevenpence a pound I hear they’re going to have it, against the fourpence ha’penny they’ve got it up to already.  That’s the sort of thing they’re afraid to discourage by a duty.”

“Would a duty discourage it?” asked John Murchison.

“Why not—­if they let British-grown cotton in free?  They won’t discourage the combine much—­that form of enterprise has got to be tackled where it grows; but the Yankee isn’t the only person in the world that can get to understand it.  What’s to prevent preferential conditions creating British combines, to compete with the American article, and what’s to prevent Lancashire getting cheaper cotton in consequence?  Two combines are better than one monopoly any day.”

“May be so.  It would want looking into.  We won’t see a duty on cotton though, or wool either for that matter.  The manufacturers would be pleased enough to get it on the stuff they make, but there would be a fine outcry against taxing the stuff they use.”

“Did you see much of the aristocracy, Mr Murchison?” asked Mrs Williams.

“No,” replied Lorne, “but I saw Wallingham.”

“You saw the whole House of Lords,” interposed Stella, “and you were introduced to three.”

“Well, yes, that’s so.  Fine-looking set of old chaps they are, too.  We’re a little too funny over here about the Lords—­we haven’t had to make any.”

“What were they doing the day you were there, Lorne?” asked Williams.

“Motorcar legislation,” replied Lorne.  “Considerably excited about it, too.  One of them had had three dogs killed on his estate.  I saw his letter about it in the Times.”

“I don’t see anything to laugh at in that,” declared Stella.  “Dogs are dogs.”

“They are, sister, especially in England.”

“Laundresses aren’t washerwomen there,” observed Mrs Murchison.  “I’d like you to see the colour of the things he’s brought home with him, Mrs Williams.  Clean or dirty, to the laundry they go—­weeks it will take to get them right again—­ingrained London smut and nothing else.”

“In this preference business they’ve got to lead the way,” Williams reverted.  “We’re not so grown up but what grandma’s got to march in front.  Now, from your exhaustive observation of Great Britain, extending over a period of six weeks, is she going to?”

“My exhaustive observation,” said Lorne, smiling, “enables me to tell you one thing with absolute accuracy; and that is that nobody knows.  They adore Wallingham over there—­he’s pretty nearly a god—­and they’d like to do as he tells them, and they’re dead sick of theoretic politics; but they’re afraid—­oh, they’re afraid!”