“Yes, but——” A trained eye observed his clothes. They were not cut in Savile Row.
“He will see me,” said Sam serenely. Some people are at their best in the early morning.
His card was accepted from him, and he was shown into a library of severe Blue Books, possibly qualified by a reproduction of Millais’ portrait of Gladstone. Ordinarily, Sam would have been met in the library by a secretary who earned his salary by his talent for administering polite snubs to unwanted callers. The secretary was not earning his salary to-day, but, probably, spending it. It was Derby Day.
After all, a vote is a vote, and Sir William came in with a show of geniality. “Good morning, Mr. Branstone,” he said, reading Sam’s card. “From the old town. I see.”
“Is that all you remember about me?” asked Sam.
“At the moment,” confessed Sir William warily. His majority was not large.
“Well,” said Sam, “the Reverend Mr. Struggles is my father-in-law.”
“Sit down,” said Sir William. “I am very glad you called. How is Mr. Struggles?”
“T left him well, thank you. Perhaps you remember that he wrote to you to ask you for a pass to the Gallery for me.”
“I was happy to be lucky in the ballot,” said the Member.