At dinner that evening Lord Minster, who had of course taken his hostess in, opened the conversation by asking her how she had been employing herself at Madeira.
“Better than you have at St. Stephen’s, Lord Minster; at any rate, I have not been forwarding schemes for highway robbery and the national disgrace,” she answered, laughing.
“I suppose that you mean the Irish Land Act and the Transvaal Convention. I have heard several ladies speak of them like that, and I am really coming to the conclusion that your sex is entirely devoid of political instinct.”
“What do you mean by political instinct, Lord Minster?” asked Arthur.
“By political instinct,” he replied, “I understand a proper appreciation of the science and object of government.”
“Goodness me, what are they?” asked Mrs. Carr.
“Well, the science of government consists, roughly speaking, in knowing how to get into office, and remain there when once in; its objects are to guess and give expression to the prevailing popular feeling or whim with the loss of as few votes as possible.”
“According to that definition,” said Arthur, “all national questions are, or should be, treated by those who understand the ‘science and objects of government’ on a semi-financial basis. I mean, they should be dealt with as an investor deals with his funds, in order to make as much out of them as possible, not to bring real benefit to the country.”
“You put the matter rather awkwardly, but I think I follow you. I will try to explain. In the first place, all the old-fashioned Jingo nonsense about patriotism and the ‘honour of the country’ has, if people only knew it, quite exploded; it only lingers in a certain section of the landed gentry and a proportion of the upper middle class, and has no serious weight with leading politicians.”
“How about Lord Beaconsfield?”