“No,” Basset replied rather curtly. And that he might be alone with his thoughts he took up a newspaper and held it before him. But not a word did he read. After a long interval he looked over the journal and met the other’s eyes.
“Surprising news this,” the stranger said. He had the look of a soldier, and the bronzed face of one who had lived under warm skies.
Basset murmured that it was.
“The Whigs have a fine opportunity,” the other pursued. “But I am not sure that they will use it.”
“You are a Whig, perhaps?”
The stranger smiled. “No,” he replied. “I am not. I have lived so long abroad that I belong to no party. I am an Englishman.”
“Ah?” Basset rejoined, curiosity beginning to stir in him. “That’s rather a fine idea.”
“Apparently it’s a novel one. But it seems natural to me. I have lived for fifteen years in India and I have lost touch with the cant of parties. Out there, we do honestly try to rule for the good of the people; their prosperity is our interest. Here, during the few weeks I have spent in England I see things done, not because they are good, but because they suit a party, or provide a cry, or put the other side in a quandary.”
“There’s a good deal of that, I suppose.”
“Still,” the stranger continued, “I know a great man, and I know a fine thing when I see them. And I fancy that I see them here!” He tapped his paper.