The handmaiden at George Vavasor's lodgings announced "another gent,"
and then Mr Scruby entered the room in which were seated George, and
Mr Grimes the publican from the "Handsome Man" on the Brompton Road.
Mr Scruby was an attorney from Great Marlborough Street, supposed to
be very knowing in the ways of metropolitan elections; and he had now
stepped round, as he called it, with the object of saying a few words
to Mr Grimes, partly on the subject of the forthcoming contest at
Chelsea, and partly on that of the contest last past. These words
were to be said in the presence of Mr Vavasor, the person interested.
That some other words had been spoken between Mr Scruby and Mr Grimes
on the same subjects behind Mr Vavasor's back I think very probable.
But even though this might have been so I am not prepared to say that
Mr Vavasor had been deceived by their combinations.

The two men were very civil to each other in their salutations, the
attorney assuming an air of patronizing condescension, always calling
the other Grimes; whereas Mr Scruby was treated with considerable
deference by the publican, and was always called Mr Scruby. "Business
is business," said the publican as soon as these salutations were
over; "isn't it now, Mr Scruby?"

"And I suppose Grimes thinks Sunday morning a particularly good time
for business," said the attorney, laughing.

"It's quiet, you know," said Grimes. "But it warn't me as named
Sunday morning. It was Mr Vavasor here. But it is quiet; ain't it, Mr
Scruby?"

Mr Scruby acknowledged that it was quiet, especially looking out
over the river, and then they proceeded to business. "We must pull
the governor through better next time than we did last," said the
attorney.

"Of course we must, Mr Scruby; but, Lord love you, Mr Vavasor,
whose fault was it? What notice did I get,--just tell me that? Why,
Travers's name was up on the liberal interest ever so long before the
governor had ever thought about it."

"Nobody is blaming you, Mr Grimes," said George.

"And nobody can't, Mr Vavasor. I done my work true as steel, and
there ain't another man about the place as could have done half
as much. You ask Mr Scruby else. Mr Scruby knows, if ere a man in
London does. I tell you what it is, Mr Vavasor, them Chelsea fellows,
who lives mostly down by the river, ain't like your Maryboners or
Finsburyites. It wants something of a man to manage them. Don't it Mr
Scruby?"

"It wants something of a ma