"I've got it," cried Grantly. "He's the Liberal candidate, that's what he is. He's standing against poor old Brooke of Medenham, and they say he'll get in, too—young brute."
"Is he a Labour member?"
"No, Liberal, they couldn't run a Labour member at Marlehouse; not enough cash in the constituency . . . tell you who he is, son of old Gallup that kept the ready-made clothes shop in the market-place—'Golden Anchor' or something, they called it. Mother used to buy suits there for the kids in the village for Easter, jolly decent suits they were, too."
"And does he keep on the 'Golden Anchor'?"
"I don't think so, but I don't know. Jolly good cheek marching through our woods, as if they belonged to him. Wish I'd met him."
"My dear chap, we're the last people in the world who can say anything to people for marching through other people's property, you especially. Why, nine-tenths of the bad rows, ever since any of us could walk, have been about that sort of thing."
"Good old Mary, that Radical chap's converted you. What else did he say?
Come on; get it off your chest."
At that moment, the door was opened by an elderly man-servant, who announced: "The master wishes to speak to you, Miss Mary."
"Oh, Botticelli! Cimabue! Burne Jones!" Mary ejaculated. "The pater must have been looking out of the window, too. What bad luck."
"I wouldn't mention having touched the chap in your interview with the pater," Grantly called after her.