She cherished an ambition to be associated with the “Old Families” of the Capital—those who regarded the ever-changing political element with disfavour. Substantial clubs appealed to her—the Rideau for her husband, the Minto for her children, the Laurentian Chapter, I.O.D.E., for herself, and the Royal Ottawa for them all. As a matter of fact, she and the Doctor had just been admitted as Life Members of the latter. In the ordinary course of procedure, they might have waited twenty-years.
A banging of doors and loud commotion in the hallway prevented further conversation, and Hebe Barrington, surrounded by a group of Naughty Niners, danced breezily into the room. Seeing Dilling, she ran forward and caught him by both arms.
“Congratulations, Raymond!” she cried. “I’ve been out of town or you would have had them sooner. Aren’t you very proud and happy? Your friends are, for you! Whose funeral is this?” she demanded looking with gay impudence over the group. “Ugh! I can guess. One of these deadly Party affairs, given—of course—in your honour! How do you do, Mrs. Dilling? Why, hello, Mr. Pratt . . . and Doctor Prendergast!” She extended a naked left arm and shook hands across the enraged head of Lady Denby. “Come along with us, Raymond. We’re going to dance. Mona Carmichael will teach us some new convolutions, so to speak. Come!”
In a low, embarrassed voice, Dilling demurred.
“Oh, stuff and nonsense! They won’t miss you. And, besides, a Minister must acquire a bagful of lightsome parlour tricks, otherwise he’ll be monstrously heavy wheeling. Gaze upon this company, Raymond, and take warning!”
She laughed gaily, ignoring the tensity with which the atmosphere was charged.
“Seize him!” she cried. “Lay violent hands upon him, and if he struggles, smother him—with affection.”
Half a dozen boys and girls rushed forward and dragged Dilling away. As Hebe moved off after them, Pratt called out to her.
“Won’t you take me, Mrs. Barrington? I may be a Minister some day—you never can tell.” He bravely avoided his wife’s eyes.
“You shall be my particular charge,” retorted Hebe with well-feigned delight. Mr. Pratt bored her inexpressibly. He was rapidly acquiring the manner of the professional politician, who looks upon every individual as a vote and who conducts himself as though life were a perpetual election campaign. He had the air of one who thinks he is the soul of the very party, moving about from group to group, telling ancient political stories as having happened to himself, and releasing at set and stated intervals, borrowed and well-worn epigrams.