"Well," continued my wife, "he said she would need care, and must stay in bed. He was in a tearing hurry, as he had to go on to one of Stridge's meetings—horrid creature!—but he promised to come again on his way home. Do you think it very important that I should come with you?"
I turned to my secretary.
"What's your opinion, Robin?"
"I think Mrs Inglethwaite should come. They like to see her on the platform, I know."
"If the Candidate's wife does not appear, people say she is too grand for them," put in Champion.
"I'll stay with Philly, Kit," said Dolly.
"Will you? You dear! But I know you want to come yourself."
"Never mind. It doesn't matter."
And so it was arranged.
We found the theatre packed to suffocation. A heated band of musicians (whose degrees must have been conferred honoris causa) had just concluded a set of airs whose sole excuse for existence was their patriotic character, and Sir Thomas Wurzel (of Heycocks) was rising to his feet, when our party appeared on the platform. Election fever was running high by this time; the critical spirit was almost entirely obliterated by a truly human desire to cut the preliminaries and hit somebody in the eye; and we were greeted with deafening cheers.