It was some time before Mr. Mafferton interfered in the least with the Engadine.  He seemed wrapped in a cloud of vain imaginings, sprung, obviously, from poppa’s ill-considered request.  I understood his emotions and carefully respected his silence.  I was unwilling to be instructed about the Engadine either botanically or geologically—­it was more agreeable not to know the names of the lovely little foreign flowers, and quite pleasant enough that every turn in the road showed us a white mountain or a purple one without having to understand what it was made of.  Besides, I particularly did not wish to precipitate anything, and there are moments when a mere remark about the weather will do it.  I had been suffering a good deal from my conscience since Mrs. Portheris had told me that poppa had written to Arthur—­I didn’t mind him enduring unnumbered pangs of hope deferred, but it was quite another thing that he should undergo the unnecessary martyrdom of imagining that he had been superseded by Dicky Dod.  On reflection, I thought it would be safer to start Mr. Mafferton on the usual lines, and I nerved myself to ask him whether he could tell me anything about the prehistoric appearance of these lovely mountains.

“I am glad,” he responded absently, “that you admire my favourite Alps.”  Nothing more.  I tried to prick him to the consideration of the scenery by asking him which were his favourite Alps, but this also came to nothing.  Having acknowledged his approval of the Alps, he seemed willing to let them go unadorned by either fact or fancy.  I offered him sandwiches, but he seemed to prefer his moustache.  Presently he roused himself.

“I’m afraid you must think me very uninteresting, Miss Wick,” he said.

“Dear me, no,” I replied.  “On the contrary, I think you are a lovely type.”

“Type of an Englishman?” Mr. Mafferton was not displeased.

“Type of some Englishmen.  You would not care to represent the—­ah, commercial classes?”

“If I had been born in that station,” replied Mr. Mafferton modestly, “I should be very glad to represent them.  But I should not care to be a Labour candidate.”

“It wouldn’t be very appropriate, would it?” I suggested.  “But do you ever mean to run for anything, really?”

“Certainly not,” Mr. Mafferton replied, with slight resentment.  “In our family we never run.  But, of course, I will succeed my uncle in the Upper House.”

“Dear me!” I exclaimed.  “So you will!  I should think it would be simply lovely to be born a legislator.  In our country it is attained by such painful degrees.”  It flashed upon me in a moment why Mr. Mafferton was so industrious in collecting general information.  He was storing it up against the day when he would be able to make speeches, which nobody could interrupt, in the House of Lords.