And if the intellectual side of the struggle had been offensive, the
moral atmosphere of the Committee Rooms, infected as it was by the
candidates, had seemed to him to be even worse--mephitic, poisonous. He
had shrunk from realizing the sensations which had been forced upon him
there--a recoil of his nature as from unappeasable wild-beast greeds,
with their attendant envy, suspicion, and hatred seething like lava
under the thin crust of a forced affability, of a good-humour assumed to
make deception easy. He did not want to think of it; it was horrible.
And perhaps, after all, he was mistaken; perhaps his dislike of the work
had got upon his nerves, and showed him everything in the darkest
colours. It could scarcely be as bad as he thought, or human society
would be impossible. But argument could not blunt the poignancy of his
feelings; he preferred, therefore, to leave them inarticulate, striving
to forget. In any case, the ordeal would soon be over; it had to be
endured for a few hours more, and then he would plunge into his books
again, and enjoy good company, he and May together.

He was still lingering over this prospect when the servant came to tell
him that some gentlemen were waiting for him, and he found in the
sitting-room half-a-dozen of his favourite students. One of the Seniors,
named Cartrell, a young man of strong figure, and keen, bold face,
remarked, as he shook hands, that they had come to accompany him--
"Elections are sometimes rough, and we know the ropes." Roberts thanked
them warmly, and they set off.

The Committee Rooms of the Democratic party were situated near the Court
House, in what had been once the centre, but was now the edge of the
town. The little troop had to pass through the negro quarter--small
frame-houses, peppered over grassless, bare lots, the broken-down fences