As he was dressing she heard him now and then humming a chance tune (a thing which in his normal self he would no more have dreamed of doing than of walking the streets without his hat) and now and then commenting upon the character and attributes of the opera singer whom he had last heard sing it. She heard him launch out into a long monologue, describing the exact career of the new soprano at Covent Garden, the name of her father and her mother, the name of the Russian Grand Duke, the name of a wealthy English lady who had asked her (and him) to supper, and then, oh horror! the name of an English statesman. There was a burst of laughter which Lady Repton could hardly bear: and then a silence.
When they met again and their guests had begun to come he seemed right enough, except that now and then he would say things which every one in the room knew well enough to be true, but which were by no means suitable to the occasion.
It was thought eccentric in him, especially by those who knew him best, that he should comment somewhat upon what man was paired off with what woman in the procession, and it was thought exceedingly coarse by his partner that he should explain a strong itching upon his right ankle to be due, not to a flea, for his man was most careful, but to some little skin trouble.
The noise of talking during the dinner covered any other indiscretions, and when the men were alone with him over the wine, he sat gloomily enough, evidently changed but guilty of nothing more exceptional than a complete ignorance of where the wine came from or what it was.
There were the beginnings of a quarrel with a pompous and little-known fellow-member of his own Party who attempted to talk learnedly on wine. Repton had begun, “What on earth d’you know about wine? Why, your old father wouldn’t allow you swipes when you went to fetch the supper beer!” He had begun thus, I say, to recall the humble origins of the politician, when he added: “But there, what’s the good of quarreling? You’re all the same herd,”—his evident illness excused him. He led them back to the women, a gloomy troupe; they began to leave uncommonly early.
The one who lingered last was a very honest man, stupid, straightforward and rich. He was fond of Charles Repton, simply because Repton had once done him a very cheap good turn in the matter of a legal dispute; he had stopped a lawsuit. And this man ever, since—it was now five years ago,—was ready to serve that household. His name, I should add, was Withers, and he was a Commoner; he sat for Ashington. He had not only this loyal feeling for Charles Repton, which he was perhaps the only man in London to feel; he had also a simple admiration for him, for his career, for his speeches, for his power of introducing impromptu such words as “well,” and “now” and “I will beg the House to observe” into his careful arguments. Lady Repton trusted him, and she was glad to see him remaining alone after the others had left. Charles Repton was sitting at the end of the room, staring at nothingness.
Withers whispered to Lady Repton a rapid query as to what had happened. She could tell him nothing, but her eyes filled with tears.
“Wouldn’t it be better,” said Withers hurriedly, in a low tone, “if I got him back to vote to-night? There’ll be three divisions at eleven. There’s bound to be a scandal if he doesn’t turn up.”
“Yes—no—very well,” said Lady Repton. “I don’t understand it. I don’t understand anything.” She almost broke down.
“Repton,” said Withers, “won’t you come along with me? It’s half-past ten, there’ll be three divisions.”