“Good heavens!” I exclaimed, with a sudden glance at my card, “this is where my next house is, and it is this cellar apparently. I must fish out some eyeglasses to go down these steps or I shall break my neck.”
“It is Eliza Thomas’s own vote,” said Miss Kate, examining my card. “I will wait up here for you.”
Eliza Thomas had, very likely, been celebrating her first centenary that afternoon in a glass of port. She was far and away deafer than the deafest person I have ever met. My throat becomes dry as I think about her.
“’Oo is it?” she asked, with her hand behind her ear. “There’s been a lady round and give me this card [fetching from the mantelpiece the portrait of our hated rival], and I said I’d give me vote, so it’ll be all right, my dear.”
Me (very loudly and distinctly): “No, no. You are a Conservative, you know. You mustn’t vote for THAT one—THIS is the one.”
Eliza (with a reassuring dribble): “Oh yes, I said I’d vote. It’ll be all right, my dear.”
Me (bawling): “Yes—but you mustn’t vote for THIS one. You’re a Conservative!”
Eliza: “They told me it was to be for this one, but I don’t know. Is’t for the Parliament?”
Me: “Oh no, the City Council. Do you know Canon Black?”