horsham. [With charming insinuation.] And have you calculated, Blackborough, what may become of us if Trebell has the pull of being out of it?
blackborough makes a face.
blackborough. Yes . . I suppose he might turn nasty.
farrant. I should hope he would.
blackborough. [Tackling farrant with great ease.] I should hope he would consider the matter not from the personal, but from the political point of view . . as I am trying to do.
horsham. [Tasting his epigram with enjoyment.] Introspection is the only bar to such an honourable endeavour, [blackborough gapes.] You don't suffer from that as—for instance—Charles here, does.
blackborough. [Pugnaciously.] D'you mean I'm just pretending not to attack him personally?
horsham. [Safe on his own ground.] It's only a curious metaphysical point. Have you never noticed your distaste for the colour of a man's hair translate itself ultimately into an objection to his religious opinions . . or what not? I am sure—for instance—I could trace Charles's scruples about sitting in a cabinet with Trebell back to a sort of academic reverence for women generally which he possesses. I am sure I could . . if he were not probably now doing it himself. But this does not make the scruples less real, less religious, or less political. We must be humanly biased in expression . . or not express ourselves.
blackborough. [Whose thoughts have wandered.] The man's less of a danger than he was . . I mean he'll be alone. The Liberals won't have him back. He smashed his following there to come over to us.