'Yes, but this man has got a way of putting things—the people went mad.'
It was all very well for a mere girl to be staring indifferently out of the window, while a great historic party was steering straight for shipwreck; but it really was too much to see this man who ought to be taking the situation with the seriousness it deserved, strolling about the room with that abstracted air, looking superciliously at Mr. Dunbarton's examples of the Glasgow school. Farnborough balanced himself on wide-apart legs and thrust one hand in his trousers' pocket. The other hand held a telegram. 'The Liberal platform as defined at Dutfield is going to make a big difference,' he pronounced.
'You think so,' said Stonor, dryly.
'Well, your agent says as much.' He pulled off the orange-brown envelope, threw it and the reply-paid form on the table, and held the message under the eyes of the obviously surprised gentleman in front of him.
'My agent!' Stonor had echoed with faint incredulity.
He took the telegram. '"Try find Stonor,"' he read. 'H'm! H'm!' His eyes ran on.
Farnborough looked first at the expressionless face, and then at the message.
'You see!'—he glanced over Stonor's shoulder—'"tremendous effect of last night's Liberal manifesto ought to be counteracted in to-morrow's papers."' Then withdrawing a couple of paces, he said very earnestly, 'You see, Mr. Stonor, it's a battle-cry we want.'
'Clap-trap,' said the great man, throwing the telegram down on the table.