"George Steadman, sir, a big, heavy-set chap—very faithful in his attendance, sir, absolutely reliable—never talks, but votes right."
"I don't recall him," said the great man, after a pause, "but your description shows he's the sort we must retain."
He lit his cigar, and when it was drawing nicely, removed it from his mouth, and looked carefully at it, as if he expected to find authentic information in it regarding private members. Failing this, he put it back in his mouth, and between puffs went on:—
"Let me see—they are wanting a bridge near there, aren't they? on the
Souris?"
"Yes sir, at Purple Springs."
"All right—we ought to be able to hold the fort there with the bridge—but the trouble is, this thing will spread, and when the campaign warms up, this girl will be in demand."
He lapsed into silence again.
Peter, still holding the paper, volunteered:—
"She seems to be one of those infant prodigies who could sing 'The Dying Nun,' and recite 'Curfew Shall Not Ring Tonight,' before she could talk plainly."
The Cabinet Minister gave no sign that he was listening—mental agitation was written on his face.