It was on this fair day that Mr. P.J. Neelands took his journey to the country to do it a service, and it is but fair to say that Mr. Neelands had undertaken his new work with something related to enthusiasm. It savored of mystery, diplomacy, intrigue, and there was a thrill in his heart as he sat in the green plush-covered seat, and leaning back, with his daintily shod feet on the opposite seat, surveyed himself in the long mirror which filled the door of the stateroom at the end. It was a very smartly dressed young man he saw, smiling back engagingly, and the picture pleased him. Expenses and salary paid, with a very delightful piece of work before him, which, if handled tactfully and successfully, would bring him what he craved—political promotion in the Young Men's Club. The fact in the glass smiled again. "Diplomacy is the thing," said Peter to himself. "It carries a man farther than anything—and I'm glad my first case has a woman in it."
He buffed his nails on the palm of his other hand, and, looking at them critically, decided to go over them again.
"There's nothing like personal neatness to impress a girl; and this one, from her picture, will see everything at a glance."
Crossing the river at Poplar Ridge, he looked out of the window at the pleasant farmyard of one of the old settlers on the Assiniboine; a fine brick house, with wide verandahs, an automobile before the door, a barnyard full of cackling hens, with a company of fine fat steers in an enclosure—a pleasing picture of farm life, which filled his imagination.
"What a country of opportunity," thought Peter, "a chance for every one, and for women especially. Everything in life is done for them. This house was built for some woman, no doubt. I hope she appreciates it, and is contented and happy in it. Women were made to charm us—inspire us—cheer us, but certainly not to rival us!"
Peter, with his hands on the knees of his well-creased trousers, hitched them slightly, just enough to reveal a glimpse of his lavender socks.
"Perhaps this girl needs only an interest—a love interest—" Peter blushed as he thought it—"to quiet her. If her affection were captured, localized, centralized, she would not be clamoring to take a man's place. She might be quite willing to enter politics, indirectly, and be the power behind a man of power."
He looked again at the newspaper picture of Pearl Watson, and again at his own reflection in the long glass.
"And a girl like this," Peter meditated, "would be a help, too. She is evidently magnetic and convincing." His mind drifted pleasantly into the purple hills and valleys of the future, and in a delightfully vague way plans began to form for future campaigns, where a brilliant young lawyer became at once the delight of his friends and the despair of his enemies, by his scathing sarcasm, his quick repartee, and still more by his piercing and inescapable logic. Never had the Conservative banner been more proudly borne to victory. Older men wept tears of joy as they listened and murmured, "The country is safe—thank God!"
Ably assisting him, though she deferred charmingly to him, in all things, was his charming young wife, herself an able speaker and debater who had once considered herself a suffragette, but who was now entirely absorbed in her beautiful home and her brilliant husband.