“You know,” he said, “that you’re not to talk politics this afternoon. We’re all tired out.”
Leicester passed his hand lightly down his face, and, turning slowly, went back to his arm-chair.
Mr. Balestier opened his eyes rather wide; he was a stoutish, clean-shaven man of forty-five with a rather disagreeable expression, who, probably because he was interested in South American railways, went about everywhere with the Senhora de Bogota.
“Oh, I say,” he ejaculated to Pauline, “you have got them under your thumb, if it’s you who insists they’re not to talk politics. It seems to act like a military command.”
And Pauline stifled a yawn with her tiny hand.
“Well, it’s perfectly true what Dudley’s secretary says. We are all nearly worn out, so you’ll have to excuse my yawning,” Grimshaw heard her say from behind his back. “And Dudley hasn’t been really well since he had the ‘flu.’”
“Oh, you’re altogether too nervous,” Mr. Balestier’s fat voice came. “Dudley’s absolutely certain of his seat, and as for not well, why, he’s a picture of ox-like health. Just look at him!”
“But he’s so terribly thorough,” Pauline answered. “He’s much too wrapped up in this work. Why, he thinks about nothing else all day and all night. If you watch him you’ll see he hardly ever speaks. He’s thinking, I wouldn’t mind betting, about how to win the heart of a man called ”Down,“ with red@@@ whiskers, who’s an Antipedobaptist and not our tenant, and supposed to be able to influence thirty Nonconformists’ votes. You just keep your eye on Dudley.”
“Oh, I’ll take your word for his industry,” Mr. Balestier said. “But I’ve got something much better worth keeping my eyes on.”
“Is that meant for you or me, Madame de Bogota?” Pauline said. “Or possibly it’s you, Mrs. Jimtort!”