you know, there was the luncheon to-day--and I fancied that he was a
little flippant about the labour vote. It was perhaps only his way of
speaking."

Mr. Bullsom smiled and rubbed the carriage window with the cuff of his
coat. He was very hungry.

"Oh, well, a politician has to trim a little, you know," he remarked.
"Votes he must have, and Henslow has a very good idea how to get them.
Here we are, thank goodness." The carriage had turned up a short drive,
and deposited them before the door of a highly ornate villa. Mr.
Bullsom led the way indoors, and himself took charge of his guest's coat
and hat. Then he opened the door of the drawing-room.

"Mrs. Bullsom and the girls," he remarked, urbanely, "will be delighted
to see you. Come in!"



CHAPTER II

THE BULLSOM FAMILY AT HOME

There were fans upon the wall, and much bric-a-brac of Oriental shape
but Brummagem finish, a complete suite of drawing-room furniture,
incandescent lights of fierce brilliancy, and a pianola. Mrs. Peter
Bullsom, stout and shiny in black silk and a chatelaine, was dozing
peacefully in a chair, with the latest novel from the circulating
library in her lap; whilst her two daughters, in evening blouses, which
were somehow suggestive of the odd elevenpence, were engrossed in more