rather impatiently, “but the truth is I only allowed myself to be put up because my old uncle pressed me. He made me a present of a neat ten thou’, so what could I do? I was simply led as a lamb to the slaughter, and nowadays I get deputations waiting upon me, headed by the butcher of Little Twaddlington, and consisting of the inn-keeper and the tinker of that rural centre of civilisation. I’m civil to them, of course, but hang it, old man, I can’t promise to ask all their foolish questions. I’m not built that way. When I make a promise, I keep it. Members nowadays, however, will promise anything on earth, from obtaining an autograph for the butcher’s wife’s collection to the bringing down of manna from above.”

I saw that Roddy was discontented, and was considerably surprised. His Parliamentary honours weighed heavily upon him. He had joined the St. Stephen’s Club in the manner of all staunch Conservative members, and I attributed some of his dissatisfaction to the fact that he was nightly compelled to dine with the old fogies there, so as to be within reach for divisions. The Club is only across the road from the House, standing at the corner of the Embankment, and connected with Palace Yard by a subterranean passage. When the division-bell rings in the House it also rings in the club dining-room, and anxious members leave their soup, dash through the tunnel and vote, and come back to finish it. Indeed, it is no uncommon thing for this to be repeated several times in the course of dinner, causing much puffing and grumbling on the part of the stout and gouty members who, overtaken in this helter-skelter to vote, are very often shut out and find they have had their scramble for nothing. Then on returning to table they have to withstand the chaff of the younger and more active legislators, of whom Roddy was a very fair specimen.

“Going down to the House to-night?” I inquired.

“No. It’s Wednesday, thank Heaven! I’ve been down there this afternoon, but we rose at six. Where are you toddling?”

“Anywhere,” I answered. “I want to look in at the Naval and Military for a letter first.”

“From a charmer, eh?” he asked, with a merry twinkle.

“No,” I answered briefly.

“You’re a rum chap, Clifton,” he said. “You never seem to take girls up the river, to the theatre, or to the races, as other men do. I’m beginning to think that you don’t like womankind.”

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