My cousin, Gilbert Hardross, was eight years older than I, and of
intensely serious proclivities. He was, I believe, a very useful member
of the House, and absolutely conscientious in the discharge of what he
termed his duty to his constituents. We drove down together to Lord's,
and knowing him to be a person almost entirely devoid of imagination, I
forbore to make any mention of the events of the previous night. One
question, however, I did ask him.

"What sort of an hotel is the Universal supposed to be, Gilbert? Rather a
queer lot of people staying there, I thought."

My cousin implied by a gesture that he was not surprised.

"Very cosmopolitan indeed," he declared. "It is patronized chiefly, I
believe, by a certain class of Americans and gentlemen of the sporting
persuasion. The restaurant, of course, is good, and a few notabilities
stay there now and then. I should have thought the Carlton would have
suited you better."

I changed the subject.

"How are politics?" I asked.

He looked at me as though in reproach at the levity of my question.

"You read the papers, I suppose?" he remarked. "You know for yourself
that we are passing through a very critical time. Never," he added,
"since I have been in the House, have I known such a period of anxiety."