After lunch I went with Reginald’s sister Kate, who had just come back from college, to call on the Rev. Owen Griffiths ap Davis. I left her with him (which I would not have done had I known that a reverend gentleman could be so vicious) and went myself to recommend Reginald next door. Miss Kate told me afterwards exactly what happened, and having caught sight of Mr. ap Davis in the hall as he came out to see what all the talking was about, I could picture the scene exactly. Miss Kate curled up and looking very severe, the Reverend Davis opposite her, spitting out his remarks with absurd venom.
“Well, I don’t mind telling you frankly that you are canvassing for quite the wrong man altogether, and you will allow me to say that I hope very sincerely he won’t get in. I don’t know what he thinks about this Disestablishment Bill, but until that is passed I shall record my vote for whoever I think likely to put it in force. You say he’s your brother? Well, I think, if you will excuse my putting it plainly, that the fewer men of the stamp of your brother that there are in this town the better.... Oh, no trouble I assure you. Nasty damp day. Good morning.”
I had not met with much more success next door; in fact, I never got farther than the step. When Miss Amelia Carraway, dressmaker (I found this out by looking at her brass-plate), saw me from the window of her front room, where she was engaged behind the lace curtains with her mouth full of pins, she shot out at the door and at once gathered from my apologetic smile and the tell-tale cards in my hand what I had come about. I have drawn her in her room because she looks best there, although, in fact, I did not get so far until another day when I returned on legitimate business. She is like that “animal of merit, and perfect honesty, the ferret,” who, we are told, “bites holes in leaves, ties knots in string, or practically anything,” in the matter of clothes. But to return to that afternoon.
“It’s my sister that’s got the vote,” she said in a rapid, dry patter. “No, thank you, she doesn’t vote. She’s not the time. No, she doesn’t care for it, thank you. No, you can’t see her; she’s busy.... No, it’s no use, thank you. She’s not interested. No, she won’t come.... Oh, it’s all right. It’s no trouble. There’s been two ladies before.... Allow me. [Picking up my scattered cards.] Thank you. Good afternoon.”
“That’s a first-rate canvasser, I believe,” said Miss Kate as we passed down Elysium Street, where a cheery little lady in warm clothes was standing in front of an open door. On the step, beside a steaming pail of water, the lady of the house was reluctantly wiping her hands on her apron in order to meet the persistent cordiality of her canvasser. As we passed I heard the cheerful little lady say, hopefully:
“Well, good-bye, and you’ll say I called, won’t you?”
The Lady of the House: “Oh, yes, I’ll tell ’im. He don’t take much interest in the votin’; he’s at sea now. Of course if it were me it ’ud be the Liberals I’d be for. My father ’e always voted Liberal.”