me in."

"My niece, Miss Scott," Mr. Bullsom announced. "Now you know all the
family."

A plainly-dressed girl with dark eyes and unusually pale cheeks returned
his greeting quietly, and followed them into the dining-room. Mrs.
Bullsom spread herself over her seat with a little sigh of relief.
Brooks gazed in silent wonder at the gilt-framed oleographs which hung
thick upon the walls, and Mr. Bullsom stood up to carve a joint of
beef.

"Plain fare, Mr. Brooks, for plain people," he remarked, gently
elevating the sirloin on his fork, and determining upon a point of
attack. "We don't understand frills here, but we've a welcome for our
friends, and a hearty one."

"If there is anything in the world better than roast beef," Brooks
remarked, unfolding his serviette, "I haven't found it."

"There's one thing," Mr. Bullsom remarked, pausing for a moment in his
labours, "I can give you a good glass of wine. Ann, I think that if you
look in the right-hand drawer of the sideboard you will find a bottle of
champagne. If not I'll have to go down into the cellar."

Ann, however, produced it--which, considering that Mr. Bullsom had
carefully placed it there a few hours ago, was not extraordinary--and
Brooks sipped the wine with inward tremors, justified by the result.

"I suppose, Mr. Brooks," Selina remarked, turning towards him in an
engaging fashion, "that you are a great politician. I see your name so
much in the papers."

Brooks smiled.

"My political career," he answered, "dates from yesterday morning. I am
taking Mr. Morrison's place, you know, as agent for Mr. Henslow. I
have never done anything of the sort before, and I have scarcely any
claims to be considered a politician at all."

"A very lucky change for us, Brooks," Mr. Bullsom declared, with the
burly familiarity which he considered justified by his position as
chairman of the Radical committee. "Poor Morrison was past the job. It
was partly through his muddling that we lost the seat at the last
election. I'd made up my mind to have a change this time, and so I told
'em."

Brooks was tired of politics, and he looked across the table. This
pale girl with the tired eyes and self-contained manner interested him.
The difference, too, between her and the rest of the family was
puzzling.

"I believe, Miss Scott," he said, "that I met you at the Stuarts'
dance."

"I was there," she admitted. "I don't think I danced with you, but we
had supper at the same ta