“You’d grudge me even their company, would you? Well, they came in to sit with me, and Fagan let a hint or two drop. You better look out, my man.”
“What do you mean?” he asked.
“They ain’t none too well pleased with you, these Labor chaps aren’t, and I don’t wonder at it. What do you want going to lords’ dinner parties dressed up like one of them? Fagan says that ain’t what you were sent to Parliament for.”
“Fagan is an ignorant ass,” Strone exclaimed passionately. “I am doing my best for the cause, and my way is the right way. My presence at Lord Sydenham’s to-night was no personal matter. It was a recognition of our party, and a valuable recognition. I am surprised that you should listen to such rubbish, Milly.”
“Fagan may be right and he may be wrong,” she answered, “but he reckons that you’re getting too big for your boots. It don’t want fine gentlemen to speak for workingmen. Were there any women at your party to-night?”
“Yes,” Strone answered, “there were women there.”
“Then why wasn’t I asked?” she demanded, setting down her empty glass.
“It is so hard to make you understand, Milly,” he said. “I was not there as a private guest at all. Socially every one was of a different rank. I was there as a man who could command votes. You would not have been comfortable, and I am sure that you would not have enjoyed it.”
Always these scenes wrought themselves into a quarrel and ended by Milly’s dissolving into tears and their planning a gala day on the morrow, when Milly would have her fill of delight at some cheap little theatre her taste had prompted for their holiday.
But there were other and more painful occasions when Strone, returning home, found his house brilliantly lighted—while strains of ribald song floated out into the streets—and he knew that Milly was entertaining her friends from Gascester.