Only two people really appreciated that correspondence. They were Mrs.
Nevill Tyson and Miss Batchelor. "At this rate," said the lady of
Meriden, smiling to herself, "my friend Samson will very soon bring
down the house."
Tyson, contemptuous of the gallery, had been playing to Sir Peter and Sir
Peter alone, and he flattered himself that this time he had caught the
great man's eye. It was in the first excitement of the elections; Tyson
had come in from Drayton, and was glancing as usual at the visiting cards
on the hall table. On the top of the dusty pile that had accumulated in
the days of his wife's illness there was actually a fresh card. Tyson's
face lost something of its militant expression when he read the name "Sir
Peter Morley," and he smiled up through the banisters at his wife as she
came downstairs to greet him.
"Ha, Molly, I see Morley's looked us up again. He couldn't very well be
off it much longer."
"He called about the elections."
"Oh--I thought you were out?"
"So I was. I met him in the drive and made him come in."
"H'm. Did he say anything about my letters in the Herald?"
Mrs. Nevill Tyson hesitated. "N-no. Not much."
"What did he say!"
"Oh--I think--he only said it was rather a pity you'd mixed yourself up
with it."
"Damn his impertinence!"
He flicked the card with a disdainful fingernail and followed his wife
into the drawing-room. She gave him some tea to keep him quiet; he drank
it in passionate gulps. Then he felt better, and lay back in his chair
biting his mustache meditatively.
"By the way, did Morley say whether he'd support Ringwood! The fellow's a
publican, likewise a sinner, but we must rush him in for the District
Council."
"Why?" asked Mrs. Nevill Tyson, trying hard to be interested.
"Why? To keep that radical devil out, of course; a cad that spits on his
Bible, and would do the same for his Queen's face any day--if he got the
chance, I'd like to sound Morley, though." A smile flickered on his lips,
as he anticipated the important interview.
"Oh, he did say something about it. I remember now. I think he's going to
vote for the Smedley man."
Tyson's smile went out suddenly. He was scowling now. Not that he cared a
straw which way the elections went, but he liked to "mix himself up" in
them to give himself local color; and now it seemed that he had taken the
wrong shade. He had spent the better part of six weeks in badgering and
bullying Sir Peter's pet candidate.
"Morley's a miserable time-server," said he savagely. "I suppose the
usual excuses for his wife's not calling?"
"Neuralgia," said Mrs. Nevill Tyson, with a grin.