My mother must have been disappointed at the result of the East Connor election. She believed, I fear she still believes, that I am fitted to make laws and would be happy in the work. But she has great tact. She did not, by either word or glance, condole with me over my defeat.
I also possess a little tact, so I did not exult or express any gratification in her presence. We neither of us mentioned the subject of the election. My uncle Thormanby, on the other hand, has no tact at all. He came over to luncheon the day after I arrived home. We had scarcely sat down at table when he began to jeer.
“Well,” he said, speaking in his usual hearty full-throated way, “better luck next time.”
“I am not sure,” I said, with dignified coolness, “that there will be a next time.”
“Oh, yes, there will. ‘He who fights and runs away will live to fight another day.’”
I did not see how the proverb applied to me.
“Do you mean the influenza?” I said. “That was scarcely my fault. My temperature was 104.”
“All the same,” said Thormanby, “you didn’t exactly stand up to her, did you?”
I understood then that he was thinking about Lalage.
“Nor did O’Donoghue,” I said. “And Vittie really was shamming. Titherington told me so.”