“No,” I said, “I’ll tell you what—” and I wrote down, “Mrs. Ashfield call.” “Polly is inclined to be self-opinionated and this trial may soften her.”
I went alone to Solomon Levy, while Miss Kate finished her appointed round and went home for a cup of tea.
“I shall vote,” Mr. Levy assured me, leaning over his newspaper with the remote look of a sage; “but I’m not going to tell you who it’s for.—No, I shan’t say. I’ve never said who I’ve voted for. I can tell you it will be for the man who brings the rates down, but I’m not going to say who that is.... What’s that you say? No, I’m not a Churchman, and I don’t know the gentleman. I’ve my own views, and if we all do our duty that’s enough, isn’t it? What? Yes, I think so. It’s enough for me anyway, and, what’s more, I’d sooner vote for a man who had no religious opinions; he’s more likely to be fair to all. No, I shan’t say. Good day!”
“She’s away, next door,” said helpful Mrs. Murphy, with her large smile and the voice of a dove. I felt a sudden friendship towards her, as the thought struck me that any emotions she might ever feel would be as untouched by human shame as are changes in the weather.
She was very dirty, but it was the dirt of a potato-field and a pigsty, which I find less revolting than “tapestry curtains, art table-covers, fancy and silk blouses, soiled evening dresses,” and other horrors which, if we may believe the dry cleaners’ advertisements, form so large a part of every refined home.
“She’s away, next door,” I heard the dove-like gurgle, when I had knocked in vain for some minutes at No. 47. “I think it’ll be the Liberals she’s for, but you’ll do well to call again. We’ve not the vote, else we’d be pleased to oblige you, for we’re both Conservative. There’s been six ladies before, but you can leave another picture and welcome.... Oh, it’s all right—Get back, now, Flora, and leave the lady alone. Have y’ tried Mr. Hanny, now, on the other side? It’s likely he might vote if y’ asked him.”
“One more,” I said to myself, “and then Polly shall give me tea, or be answerable for my loss.” Stanmore Road was on my way home, and I proposed to have a word with Mr. James Groat. That would leave me only three to do after tea. I knocked at the door. It was opened, after some delay and shouting, by a minx—M-I-N-X—minx. Editors, I notice, always alter this name to “maiden,” or “débutante,” or something that does not mean quite the same thing. A minx, therefore, standing with reluctant feet where the door and door-step meet. I asked if Mr. Groat were at home, and she replied that she would “just see”; I could wait if I liked. She came back in a few minutes, leaving the parlour door open.