"So you are a Radical, but not a Home-Ruler. Well, from the look of you, I should never have thought it. You can go if you like, Godfrey; I should be glad to talk to Mr. Bradfield for a few minutes; he is the first Radical I have ever liked," and he smiled at The Bradder, anticipating triumph.
I did not go, and I am glad that I stayed, for both of them had to fight hard to keep their tempers, and their struggles fascinated me. From the beginning The Bradder made up his mind to treat the duel lightly, but my father pressed him hard, and occasionally provoked a retort which flashed. For more than an hour they talked, and indignant servants, showing heads of expostulation, had to go away unnoticed. But The Bradder met explosions with what my father called afterwards rank obstinacy, and the man who explodes is naturally angry if he cannot get some one to explode back at him.
"The Warden, from what I have heard of him, would not approve of your opinions," my father said at last.
"He does not meddle with our politics," The Bradder answered.
"He's a wise man," my father returned, and The Bradder laughed.
"The Warden talks about politicians as if they were an army of tuft-hunters, hunting for tufts which they will never find. He refuses to speak seriously about politics."
"The habit of being amused at our failures or cynical about them is becoming too common."
I could not help smiling at the quickness with which the Warden had been toppled off his seat of wisdom, and my father pushed his chair back impatiently.
"The Warden is, I believe, a strong Tory, and reserves his contempt for what he calls 'modern politicians.'"
"I said he was a wise man," my father replied, and the Warden was reinstated.