“Yes. Wife of the Member for Pinto Plains. You should know her, Mrs. Pratt. A creature of rare beauty and charm.”
Mrs. Pratt confessed to a slight acquaintance in a tone calculated to chill her guest’s enthusiasm. “She gave a big tea, this afternoon. Mod and I were there.”
“Really? I am glad to hear it. You two ought to be great friends—with interests that are so nearly identical.” As Mrs. Pratt said nothing, the Hon. Member continued—somewhat more easily, noting that his host and Maude had left the room—“I’m so fond of her . . . almost too fond, I’m afraid! She’s a wonderful little woman, Mrs. Pratt—and I’ve known a good many in my day. Do you realise that Marjorie could simply make her husband, if she had a tithe of your political sense . . . if she only knew how!”
“You surprise me,” said Mrs. Pratt, and in her tone the Hon. Member was gratified to detect the ring of truth.
“Well, it’s a fact. Dilling’s a marvel, my dear lady. Even the Opposition concede him the respect due a powerful antagonist.”
“He’s not a bad speaker,” admitted Mrs. Pratt.
“There isn’t a man in the House who can touch him! Now, is there?”
Mrs. Pratt hedged by suggesting that the country looked for something more than forensic eloquence.
“A profound remark!” Mr. Sullivan could not restrain his admiration. He beamed and stroked his knees, deriving from the performance, apparently, much satisfaction. “Trust you to dig right down to the root of the matter! Not that he hasn’t principles, dear lady, and also the courage necessary to express them. We mustn’t overlook that. Moreover, it’s almost impossible to defeat him in argument . . . Such disconcerting agility of mind, you know. He lets the other fellow expend himself in an offensive, and then, without apparent effort, stabs and thrusts until his opponents fall in regular—er—regular—”
“Windrows,” suggested Mrs. Pratt, whose unacknowledged relatives were honest farming people.