like:  ‘I knew him when’ he was a nipper—­that high.’  And if you like to be mysterious and romantic you can say:  ‘I, Barney Bill, gave him his first chance,’ as you did, my dear old friend, and Paul’s not the man to forget it.  Oh, Barney, it’s too wonderful”—­his heart went out to the old man.  “If I get in I will tell you something that will knock you flat.  It will be the realization of all the silly rubbish I talked in the old brickfield at Bludston.  But, dear old friend, it was you and the open road that first set me on the patriotic lay, and there’s not a voter in Hickney Heath who can vote as you can—­for his own private and particular trained candidate.”

Jane, for reasons unconjectured, did not reply.  But from Barney Bill, who, it must be remembered, had leanings toward literature, he received a postcard with the following inscription:  “Paul, Hif I can help you konker the Beastes of Effesus I will.  Bill.”

And then began the furious existence of an electioneering campaign.  His side had a clear start of the Radicals, who found some hitch in the choice of their candidate.  The Young England League leaped into practical enthusiasm over their champion.  Seldom has young candidate had so glad a welcome.  And behind him stood his Sophie, an inspiring goddess.

It so happened that for a date a few days hence had been fixed the Annual General Meeting of the Forlorn Widows’ Fund, when Report and Balance Sheet were presented to the society.  The control of this organization Paul had not allowed to pass into the alien hands of Townsend, the Winwoods’ new secretary.  Had not his Princess, for the most delicious reasons in the world, been made President?  He scorned Ursula Winwood’s suggestion that for this year he would allow Townsend to manage affairs.  “What!” cried he, “leave my Princess in the lurch on her first appearance?  Never!” By telephone he arranged an hour for the next day, when they could all consult together over this important matter.

“But, my dear boy,” said Miss Winwood, “your time is not your own.  Suppose you’re detained at Hickney Heath?”

“The Conqueror,” he cried, with a gay laugh, “belongs to the Detainers—­not the Detained.”

She looked at him out of her clear eyes, and shook an indulgent head. .

“I know,” said he, meeting her glance shrewdly.  “He has got to use his detaining faculty with discretion.  I’ve made a study of the little ways of conquerors.  Ali!  Dearest lady!” he burst out suddenly, in his impetuous way, “I’m talking nonsense; but I’m so uncannily happy!”

“It does me good to look at you,” she said.

CHAPTER XVII