“It does one good to see you enthusiastic,” cried Lady Phayre with a laugh. “Your criticisms are generally more bracing than genial. But why don’t I know Goddard?”
“He surely has not sprung suddenly into your horizon?”
“Of course not. The newspapers—general talk—I know all about him that way. I meant, why don’t I know him personally?”
There was a touch of reprimand in the “why.” Gleam was Lord Chamberlain in Ordinary to her ladyship.
“I was waiting until he got into the House at the next general election. You see, until seven years ago, when he came into some money that rendered him independent, he was a carpenter or something—no, cabinetmaker—and so, to be frank, I never thought of it.”
“And you call yourself a Radical! Well, what is the matter with him? Does he wear corduroys tied up at the knees, and carry a red pocket-handkerchief in his hat?”
“Oh dear no!” exclaimed Gleam hastily. “He is presentable. I told you of a little training——”
“Well, then, lose no time in bringing him,” said Lady Phayre. “He surely must have heard of me.”
She was proud of her position: somewhat jealous of it too. That a generation of Progressists should arise which knew not Lady Phayre was a dreadful contingency. She had a prescriptive right to the homage of the coming man of the wing. Besides, an ex-cabinetmaker whose views on social polity she had thought worth while to tie up with blue ribbon was a novelty.
Aloysius Gleam took his leave. At the door he was summoned to pause.