Farnborough caught up the reply-paid form from the table. 'If you'd like to wire I'll take it.'
Faintly amused at this summary view of large complexities, 'You don't understand, my young friend,' he said, not unkindly. 'Moves of this sort are not rushed at by responsible politicians. I must have time for consideration.'
Farnborough's face fell. 'Oh. Well, I only hope some one else won't jump into the breach before you.' With his watch in one hand, he held out the other to Miss Dunbarton. 'Good-bye. I'll just go and find out what time the newspapers go to press on Sunday. I'll be at the Club,' he threw over his shoulder, 'just in case I can be of any use.'
'No; don't do that. If I should have anything new to say——'
'B-b-but with our party, as your brother said, "heading straight for a vast electoral disaster," and the Liberals——'
'If I decide on a counter-blast, I shall simply telegraph to headquarters. Good-bye.'
'Oh! A—a—good-bye.'
With a gesture of 'the country's going to the dogs,' Farnborough opened the doors and closed them behind him.
Jean had rung the bell. She came back with her eyes on the ground, and paused near the table where the crumpled envelope made a dash of yellow-brown on the polished satinwood. Stonor stood studying the carpet, more concern in his face now that there was only Jean to see it.