"He did me no harm, anyway," Maraton remarked. "The Labour vote was mine from the start."
"So it ought to have been," Aaron declared vigorously. "What could they do but vote for you, with Manchester staring them in the face?"
Maraton's expression lightened, a gleam of humour twinkled in his eyes.
"After all," he murmured, "it would have been almost Gilbertian if I had been returned to Parliament with the Labour vote against me! . . . Aaron, go and ring up Peter Dale. I want this matter cleared up. Ask him when we can meet."
Aaron left the room upon his errand. Maraton moved restlessly about the room for a moment or two. He mixed himself a drink at the sideboard, and lit a cigarette. Julia's eyes followed him all the time.
"So you are a Member of Parliament," she said at last.
"I hope you approve?" he queried.
Julia did not answer him at once. He looked across at her from the depth of the easy chair into which he had thrown himself. She was wearing a plain black dress, buttoned to her throat and unrelieved even by a linen collar or any touch of white. She was pale, and her eyes seemed all the more beautiful for the faint violet lines beneath them.
"Parliament has been the grave of so many men's careers," Maraton continued. "I am fully warned. Nothing of the sort is going to happen to me. I wouldn't have gone in now but for Foley. It's only fair. It helps him, and he's sticking to his pledges like a man."
"When do you go to Sheffield?" she asked.