“That millionaire fellow?” said Moyne, who was evidently not well up in the list of his visitors.
“And I want you to take him in hand,” said Lady Moyne to me—not to her husband. “He’s very clever, and it’s most important to get him interested in our movement.”
“You’d much better take him in hand yourself,” I said. “If any one could interest him—”
“I shall, of course; but I can’t always be with him. I’m dreadfully afraid that if Mr. Babberly talks to him—but you know what Mr. Babberly is. He’s splendid in Parliament and on a platform; perfectly splendid. We’ve nobody like him. But he might not quite suit Mr. Conroy. Then poor dear Colonel Malcolmson does talk such nonsense. Of course it’s very good in its way, and I do hope the Liberals will lay to heart what he says about fighting before it’s too late—”
“Mr. Conroy is a business man,” I said, “and has a reputation for shrewdness.”
“That’s just it,” said Lady Moyne, “and the others—the Dean and that curious Mr. Cahoon. They’re dears, perfect dears in the way they stand up for the Union and the Empire, but—” She shrugged her shoulders, and smiled.
“I quite understand,” I said; “but, after all, I’m rather an old bore, too.”
“You!” said Lady Moyne. “You’re a literary man, and that’s so rare, you know, in our class. And, besides, you’re a Liberal. I don’t mean in any offensive sense of the word; only just that you’re not a party man. I must run away now; but you will do your best with Mr. Conroy, won’t you? We want a big subscription from him.”
The Dean caught me a little later in the morning, and, though I told him I had letters to write, he insisted on explaining to me that, as a clergyman, he considered it wrong to take any active part in politics.
“The Church,” he said, “cannot allow herself to become attached to any party. She must stand above and beyond party, a witness to divine and eternal righteousness in public affairs.”