“Oh, bless you, no. We’re not having the women in, if we can help it. Don’t believe in it, do you?”
“Not in real politics, I don’t.”
They stood a moment longer by the sea. Then Jack let go Somers’ arm.
“Well,” he said, “I’d rather die in a forlorn hope than drag my days out in a forlorn mope. Besides, damn it, I do want to have a shot at something, I do. These politicians absolutely get my wind up, running the country. If I can’t do better than that, then let me be shot, and welcome.”
“I agree,” said Somers.
Jack put his hand on his shoulder, and pressed it hard.
“I knew you would,” he said, in moved tones. “We want a man like you, you know—like a sort of queen bee to a hive.”
Somers laughed, rather startled by the metaphor. He had thought of himself as many things, but never as a queen bee to a hive of would-be revolutionaries. The two men went up to the house.
“Wherever have you been?” said Victoria.
“Talking politics and red-hot treason,” said Jack, rubbing his hands.