"Of course, Mr. Sylvester; we will even wear your colours, if they are becoming, you know; and I am sure you would not fight under any others. And, mind, we will have no reforms—unless you like to try your hand on the climate. But nothing else! You are so fond of reforming, you English—even the most Conservative of you—that I live in constant fear of being reformed away. I hope, Mr. Sylvester, you are more Conservative than that."
Charles Sylvester flushed a little; he cleared his throat elaborately before he replied:
"I fear I have failed to make myself understood, Lady Garnett; in no sense do I call myself a Conservative, though I am prepared to vote with the party on the Irish Question. I am a Liberal Unionist, Lady Garnett. I may almost call myself a Radical Unionist. My views on the emancipation of labour, for instance, are quite advanced. I am prepared——"
Mary interrupted him, absently, demurely, with a little speech that appeared to be a quotation.
"Labour is a pretty beast in its cage to the philanthropic visitor with buns; its temper is better understood of the professional keeper."
Lady Garnett arched her eyebrows pensively; Charles looked surprised, displeased; Mary hastened to explain, blushing a little:
"I beg your pardon! the phrase is Mr. Rainham's. I believe it is the only political principle he has."
Charles's displeasure at the maxim cooled to lofty disdain of its author.
"Ah, yes!—pretty, but cynical, as I should say most of Mr.
Rainham's principles were."
Lady Garnett was aroused out of her state of vacant boredom for the first time into a certain interest. Mary sat, her hands clasped in her lap, the flush just dying away out of her pale cheeks, while Mr. Sylvester embarked upon an elaborate disquisition of his principles and his programme—it might have been an expansion of his Parliamentary address—which the elder lady, whom a chance phrase had started upon a new line of thought, scarcely considered.