Durmot at the breakfast-table.
"I thought he was in the throes of an election," remarked her husband.
"Exactly; the poll is on Wednesday, and the poor man will have worked
himself to a shadow by that time. Imagine what electioneering must be
like in this awful soaking rain, going along slushy country roads and
speaking to damp audiences in draughty schoolrooms, day after day for a
fortnight. He'll have to put in an appearance at some place of worship
on Sunday morning, and he can come to us immediately afterwards and have
a thorough respite from everything connected with politics. I won't let
him even think of them. I've had the picture of Cromwell dissolving the
Long Parliament taken down from the staircase, and even the portrait of
Lord Rosebery's 'Ladas' removed from the smoking-room. And Vera," added
Mrs. Durmot, turning to her sixteen-year-old niece, "be careful what
colour ribbon you wear in your hair; not blue or yellow on any account;
those are the rival party colours, and emerald green or orange would be
almost as bad, with this Home Rule business to the fore."
"On state occasions I always wear a black ribbon in my hair," said Vera
with crushing dignity.
Latimer Springfield was a rather cheerless, oldish young man, who went
into politics somewhat in the spirit in which other people might go into
half-mourning. Without being an enthusiast, however, he was a fairly
strenuous plodder, and Mrs. Durmot had been reasonably near the mark in
asserting that he was working at high pressure over this election.
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