“Oh NONSENSE!... I mean how many people would write to you for instance, and congratulate you?”
Demaine gave it up. But one could see from his demeanour what she had guessed from her own study of the debates and from her great knowledge of London: a month ago people just knew that Demaine was in the House and that was about all. They knew him now as a man whose name they had seen fifty times and who asked questions. A better candidature could not be conceived, and his close family connection with so many men on both front benches would render the appointment reasonable in all eyes.
All sorts of things were lumbering against each other in George Mulross’ brain. He wondered whether one had to know anything, or what one had to do, and how the money was paid; and whether income tax was deducted at source; and how long the Government would stay in. Then the absurdity of it recurred to him.
“Of course there was Pitson,” he murmured, “and everybody laughed and said he was a half-wit,—but he was in with everybody, although he was a half-wit.”
“So are you,” said Mary.
“Yes, but I don’t laugh and go about as he did.”
“It’s against a man to laugh much,” said Mary, “and really, if it comes to going about, even a dog can do that. You’ve only got to go and sniff round people.”
The conversation could not profitably be continued. Demaine had been introduced to the idea, and that was all Mary desired to do.
She sent him home and invited herself that weekend to a house in which she would find Dolly: the Kahns’—but no matter. Dolly was there.
When the Prime Minister saw that dear figure of hers with its promise of importunities he groaned in spirit. She brought him up to the sticking point during a long walk on Sunday afternoon, and he promised her that at least he would sound.