“Good afternoon, gentlemen,” said Dilling. “No, I won’t drink, if you will excuse me.”
He accepted the chair that Howarth offered, and waited for some one to speak.
What a scene it was, and what an episode for the Muse of History . . . Over in France, the flower of Canada’s youth—the heirs of the ages—were freely offering their splendid bodies upon the altar of War in testimony of the eternal need of human sacrifice for things that transcend all human values. Over there, the spirit of the young nation was responding magnificently to a supreme test of its fineness. Here at home, within the very walls of the buildings dedicated to the purpose of moulding and directing the welfare of the nation, men of mature years were not ashamed, by plot and intrigue, to make of Canada a scorn and a byword. A man of the highest instincts for public service was being tempted by his political associates to foreswear his ideals by a sordid bargaining for power.
The Hon. Member for Morroway was the first to break the silence.
“Mr. Dilling,” he began, “we are all men of plain speech, here, and there is nothing to be gained by euphemisms or beating about the bush. In a word, then, we wish to sound you on this question of the Premiership, and to offer you an option—let us call it—on the post.”
So, and in this wise, the supreme moment of his career had come to Raymond Dilling.
The shock was such that his mind refused for a moment to function. The Premiership! The goal for which he had striven! The pinnacle of his ambition! And to be reached so soon!
What would Azalea say? . . . and poor little Marjorie?
“You—er—take me at a disadvantage, gentlemen,” he said. “I am unprepared for this . . .” and he turned again to the spokesman.