“I believe you would,” he laughed, as though her militancy were one of her amusing caprices.
Miriam’s unwieldy charges were drinking whisky and soda on the terrace, in preference to tea in the drawing-room.
“How’s the patient?” she inquired.
“Able to sit up and take a little Swinburne,” Keble reported with a truculence that wasn’t meant to be as unkind as it sounded.
“Consulted the missus, have you?” inquired a business-like campaign manager.
“I have. The answer is in the affirmative.”
Keble received a thump on the back that made him vividly conscious of the sort of thing he had now let himself in for. Could he thump, he wondered. The first attempt was not too great a success, but one would undoubtedly improve with practise.
“Now let’s get down to tacks,” said Mr. Goard, when further drinks had been consumed in honor of the event.
The delegates required a message to take back to party headquarters, and Keble dictated an outline of his political credo, the logic of which was warmed and colored in conformity with the ejaculated amendments of Pat Goard.
“Will that do the trick?” Keble finally asked.