Chilcote shrugged his shoulders.  “Oh, I don’t know,” he said.  “I scarcely believe in it.  Lakely put a match to the powder in the ‘St. George’s’, but ’twill only be a noise and a puff of smoke.”

But Fraide did not smile.  “What is the feeling down at Wark?” he asked.  “Has it awakened any interest?”

“At Wark?  Oh, I—­I don’t quite know.  I have been a little out of touch with Wark in the last few weeks.  A man has so many private affairs to look to—­” He was uneasy under his chief’s scrutiny.

Fraide’s lips parted as if to make reply, but with a certain dignified reticence he closed them again and turned away.

Chilcote leaned back in his place and furtively passed his hand over his forehead.  His mind was possessed by one consideration—­the consideration of himself.  He glanced down the crowded, lighted House to the big glass doors; he glanced about him at his colleagues, indifferent or interested; then surreptitiously his fingers strayed to his waistcoat-pocket.

Usually he carried his morphia tabloids with him, but to-day by a lapse of memory he had left them at home.  He knew this, nevertheless he continued to search, while the need of the drug rushed through him with a sense of physical sickness.  He lost hold on the business of the House; unconsciously he half rose from his seat.

The man next him looked up.  “Hold your ground, Chilcote,” he said.  “Rayforth is drying up.”

With a wave of relief Chilcote dropped back into his place.  Whatever the confusion in his mind, it was evidently not obvious in his face.

Rayforth resumed his seat, there was the usual slight stir and pause, then Salett, the member for Salchester, rose.

With Salett’s first words Chilcote’s hand again sought his pocket, and again his eyes strayed towards the doors, but Fraide’s erect head and stiff back just in front of him held him quiet.  With an effort he pulled out his notes and smoothed them nervously; but though his gaze was fixed on the pages, not a line of Blessington’s clear writing reached his mind.  He glanced at the face of the Speaker, then at the faces on the Treasury Bench, then once more he leaned back in his seat.

The man beside him saw the movement.  “Funking the drydock?” he whispered, jestingly.

“No”—­Chilcote turned to him suddenly—­“but I feel beastly —­have felt beastly for weeks.”

The other looked at him more closely.  “Anything wrong?” he asked.  It was a novel experience to be confided in by Chilcote.

“Oh, it’s the grind-the infernal grind.”  As he said it, it seemed to him suddenly that his strength gave way.  He forgot his companion, his position, everything except the urgent instinct that filled mind and body.  Scarcely knowing what he did, he rose and leaned forward to whisper in Fraide’s ear.

Fraide was seen to turn, his thin face interested and concerned, then he was seen to nod once or twice in acquiescence, and a moment later Chilcote stepped quietly out of his place.