“Who are the candidates?” inquired Franceline.
Lord Roxham laughed.
“Poor wretches! They are to be pitied. Sir Ponsonby Anwyll on the Conservative side and Mr. Charlton for the Liberals.”
“Mr. Charlton! He is then clever? Can he make speeches?”
Lord Roxham laughed again, and hesitated a little before he replied: “It’s rather a case, I fancy, of the man who could not say whether he could play the fiddle, because he had never tried. We none of us know what we can do till we try. Charlton does not strike you as having the making of an orator in him, I see.”
“Oh! I don’t know. I spoke to him to-night for the first time; he did not give me the idea of a person who could make speeches and laws; one must be very clever to get into Parliament, must he not?”
“If elections were conducted on the competitive examination system, one might assume that; but I’m afraid we successful candidates can hardly take our success as the test of merit,” said her companion. “I see you have rather a high standard about electioneering.”
Franceline had no standard at all, and was full of curiosity to hear about the mysteries of canvassing and constituents, and the poll, from some one who had gone through the various stages of the battle, from being pelted with rotten eggs on the hustings to the solemn taking possession of a legislator’s seat in the Imperial Parliament. A legislator must be a kind of hero. She was glad to have met one. Lord Roxham, who liked to hear himself talk, proceeded to enlighten her to the best of his ability; he had no end of droll electioneering stories to tell, and scandalous tales of corruption through the medium of gin-shops, etc.; he opened her eyes in horror by his account of the rotten-borough system, and the rottenness of the law-making machine in general, touching the heroes of the Liberal party with a light dash of satire and caricature that brought the dimples out in full force in Franceline’s cheeks, and made her laugh merrily; in short, he was so lively and entertaining that she was quite sorry when he held out his arm for them to start off again in the dance. As they stepped from under the colonnade, she saw Clide leaning against a pillar at the other side, with his eyes fixed on her.
“Oh! stop, please,” pleaded Franceline, after one turn over the spacious floor, and they rested for a moment; just as they did so, a couple flew past—Mr. de Winton and a very beautiful girl, as tall as Franceline, but in no other way resembling her; her hair was black as ebony, with black eyes and a clear olive complexion.