Dinner was recently over, and he found both the Cardews, father and son, in the library smoking. He had arrived at a bad moment, for the bomb outrage, coming on top of Lily's refusal to come home under the given conditions, had roused Anthony to a cold rage, and left Howard with a feeling of helplessness.
Anthony Cardew nodded to him grimly, but Howard shook hands and offered him a chair.
“I heard you speak some time ago, Mr. Cameron,” he said. “You made me wish I could have had your support.”
“I came to talk about that. I am sorry to have to come in the evening, but I am not free at any other time.”
“When we go into politics,” said old Anthony in his jibing voice, “the ordinary amenities have to go. When you are elected, Howard, I shall live somewhere else.”
Willy Cameron smiled.
“I don't think you will be put to that inconvenience, Mr. Cardew.”
“What's that?” Old Anthony's voice was incredulous. Here, in his own house, this whipper-snapper—
“I am sure Mr. Howard Cardew realizes he cannot be elected.”
The small ragged vein on Anthony's forehead was the storm signal for the family. Howard glanced at him, and said urbanely: