He was still gazing at the May morning and gloomily considering the buds in the formal garden, when Mary’s note was forced upon him by a huge Dependant.
A note in the firm hand of Mary Smith was always a pleasant thing to get; for a bewildered man it had something in it of salvation.
George Mulross went in a mood lighter than any he had known for many weeks, towards his cousin’s house. He found her, of course, alone.
“Dimmy,” she said, lifting his hand gently from the chimneypiece where he was moving it aimlessly among several breakable and valuable things,—“Dimmy, when did you last ask a question in the House?”
He looked frightened, and said:
“Oh! ages ago.”
“Now look here, Dimmy,” she said smoothly, “I want you to go and ask this to-day,”—and she handed him a bit of paper.
“Have you got any money in it?” he asked innocently.
“No, certainly not,” she answered. “You silly ass! What could that have to do with it? Read it.”
He read: “Mr. G. M. Demaine: to ask the Prime Minister whether his attention has been called to the fact that the Van Huren Company is not registered in London as the law provides, and what steps he proposes to take in view of this evasion of a public safeguard?”