“Yes; I was electioneering. I came to help Mr. Densham.”
“What! The Socialist!” I cried.
She nodded, and I could see that the corners of her mouth were twitching with amusement.
“Yes. I thought that Belchester was rather an enlightened place. We polled over four thousand votes. I think if we had another week or two, and a few less helpers we might have got Mr. Densham in.”
“A few less helpers!” I repeated, aimlessly.
“Yes. That is the worst of Labor and Socialist meetings. There is such a terrible craving amongst the working classes to become stump orators. You cannot teach them to hold their tongues. They make silly speeches, and of course the newspapers on the other side report them, and we get the discredit of their opinions. One always suffers most at the hands of one’s friends.”
I looked at her in silent wonder. I, too, had helped at that election—that is to say, I had driven about in the Countess of Applecorn’s barouche with a great bunch of cornflower in my gown, and talked amiably to a lot of uninteresting people. I had a dim recollection of a one-horse wagonette which we had passed on the way preceded by a brass band and a lot of factory hands, and of Lady Applecorn raising her gold-rimmed eyeglass and saying something about the Socialist candidate.
“Did you make speeches—and that sort of thing?” I asked, hesitatingly.