“How would you like to see him Prime Minister, my dear?”
Marjorie’s tired brain reeled. She couldn’t grasp the thought, at all. Prime Minister . . . Raymond . . . so soon to see the fulfilment of his heart’s desire? No, no! She shrunk away from the idea. There must be some mistake. They were so young, so inexperienced. They were not properly prepared, not sufficiently worthy. She felt an overwhelming pity for all those women whose lives were broken, and whose hearts were torn by the War. It shadowed the satisfaction, the joyousness she might have taken for herself. Prime Minister!
Sullivan sat quiet, watching her, and the changing expressions that sped across her haggard face. He read them as easily as though they had been printed there, and he waited.
“Do you want Raymond to be Prime Minister?” Marjorie finally whispered. “Do you think he ought to be?”
“There is little doubt on either score.” Mr. Sullivan was soothing, reassuring. “As you know, I am only an inconspicuous cog in the political machine, but even the smallest cog can control the working of the whole. Just as it can obstruct,” he added, lightly. “Without meaning to boast, I believe that my influence is sufficient to secure him the Premiership—just as I was somewhat instrumental in putting him into the Cabinet.”
“Oh, Mr. Sullivan—Uncle Rufus, do you really mean to help?”
“With all my heart, little woman,” he replied, “and so must you.”
“I?” Her confused mind translated the assistance he suggested into a need for increasing “stiffness”.
“Of course! Why not?”
“What must I do?”