“His lordship has not yet returned, my lady,” said the butler, who had once lived in the best families—far removed from literature—and who was, consequently, able to roll off the titles with proper effect.
“Then you will not have an opportunity of seeing him, I’m afraid,” she said, turning to Mr. Airey.
“I think I already said good-bye, Lady Fotheringay.”
“I do believe that you did. If I did not, however, I say it now. Good-bye, Mr. Airey.”
He got into a hansom and drove straight to Helen Craven’s house. It was the most dismal drive he had ever had. He could almost fancy that the message boys in the streets were, in their accustomed high spirits, pointing to him with ridicule as the man who had turned his party out of office.
Helen Craven was in her boudoir. She liked receiving people in that apartment. She understood its lights.
He found that she had read the newspapers.
She stared at him as he entered, and gave him a limp hand.
“What on earth did you mean by voting—” she began.
“You may well ask,” said he. “I was a fool. I was made a fool of by that girl. She made me vote against my party.”