and Samuel Killick, and the ex-member for the borough, Cougham,
posing to suit sign-boards of Liberal inns, with a hand thrust in his
waistcoat, and his head well up, the eyes running over the under-lids,
after the traditional style of our aristocracy; but perhaps more closely
resembling an urchin on tiptoe peering above park-palings. Cougham's
remark to Beauchamp, heard and repeated by Palmet with the object
of giving an example of the senior Liberal's phraseology: 'I was
necessitated to vacate my town mansion, to my material discomfort and
that of my wife, whose equipage I have been compelled to take, by your
premature canvass of the borough, Captain Beauchamp: and now, I hear,
on undeniable authority, that no second opponent to us will be
forthcoming'---this produced the greatest effect on the company.

'But do you tell me,' said Mr. Lespel, when the shouts of the gentlemen
were subsiding, 'do you tell me that young Beauchamp is going ahead?'

'That he is. They flock to him in the street.'

'He stands there, then, and jingles a money-bag.'

Palmet resumed his mimicry of Beauchamp: 'Not a stiver; purity
of election is the first condition of instruction to the people!
Principles! Then they've got a capital orator: Turbot, an Irishman. I
went to a meeting last night, and heard him; never heard anything finer
in my life. You may laugh he whipped me off my legs; fellow spun me like
a top; and while he was orationing, a donkey calls, "Turbot! ain't you
a flat fish?" and he swings round, "Not for a fool's hook!" and out they
hustled the villain for a Tory. I never saw anything like it.'

'That repartee wouldn't have done with a Dutchman or a Torbay trawler,'
said Stukely Culbrett. 'But let us hear more.'

'Is it fair?' Miss Halkett murmured anxiously to Mrs. Lespel, who
returned a flitting shrug.

'Charming women follow Beauchamp, you know,' Palmet proceeded, as he
conceived, to confirm and heighten the tale of success. 'There's a
Miss Denham, niece of a doctor, a Dr.... Shot--Shrapnel! a wonderfully
good-looking, clever-looking girl, comes across him in half-a-dozen
streets to ask how he's getting on, and goes every night to his
meetings, with a man who 's a writer and has a mad wife; a man named
Lydia-no, that's a woman--Lydiard. It's rather a jumble; but you should
see her when Beauchamp's on his legs and speaking.'

'Mr. Lydiard is in Bevisham?' Mrs. Wardour-Devereux remarked.

'I know the girl,' growled Mr. Le