he was playing at.  Now I do.  Poor chap.  I personally am sympathetic.  But what about the cold-blooded other people, who don’t know what you’ve told me?  To them he’s the son of an ex-convict—­a vendor of fried fish—­I put it brutally from their point of view—­who has been masquerading as a young St. George on horseback.  Will he ever be forgiven?  Officially, have I any use for him?  You see, I’m responsible to the party.”

“Any party,” said Ursula, “would be a congregation of imbeciles who didn’t do their best to develop the genius of Paul Savelli.”

“I’m fond of Paul,” said Colonel Winwood, in his tired way, “but I don’t know that I would go as far as that.”

“It’s only because you’re a limited male, my dear James.  I suppose Caesar was the only man who really crossed the Rubicon.  And the fuss he made about it!  Women jump across with the utmost certainty.  My dear Frank, we’re behind Paul, whatever happens.  He has been fighting for his own hand ever since he was a child, it is true.  But he has fought gallantly.”

“My dear Miss Winwood,” said Frank Ayres, “if there’s a man to be envied, it’s the one who has you for his champion!”

“Anyone, my dear Frank, is to be envied,” she retorted, “who is championed by common-sense.”

“All these fireworks illuminate nothing,” said Colonel Winwood.  “I think we had better ask Paul to come down and see Frank.  Would you like to see him alone?”

“I had rather you stayed,” said Frank Ayres.

A message was sent to Paul, and presently he appeared, very pale and haggard.

Frank Ayres met him with outstretched hand, spoke a courteous word of sympathy, apologized for coming in the hour of tragic bereavement.

Paul thanked him with equal courtesy.  “I was about to write to you, Lord Francis,” he continued, “a sort of statement in explanation of what happened last night—­”

“Our friends have told me all, I think, that you may have to say.”

“I shall still write it,” said Paul, “so that you can have it in black and white.  At present, I’ve given the press nothing.”

“Quite right,” said Frank Ayres.  “For God’s sake, let us work together as far as the press is concerned.  That’s one of the reasons why I’ve forced myself upon you.  It’s horrible, my dear fellow, to intrude at such a time.  I hate it, as you can well imagine.  But it’s my duty.”

“Of course it is,” said Paul.  There was a span of awkward silence.  “Well,” said he, with a wan smile, “we’re facing, not a political, but a very unimportant party situation.  Don’t suppose I haven’t a sense of proportion.  I have.  What for me is the end of the world is the unruffled continuance of the cosmic scheme for the rest of mankind.  But there are relative things to consider.  You have to consider the party.  I’m sort of fly-blown.  Am I any use?  Let us talk straight.  Am I or am I not?”

“My dear chap,” said Frank Ayres, with perplexed knitting of the brows, “I don’t quite know what to say.  You yourself have invited me to talk straight.  Well!  Forgive me if I do.  There may be a suggestion in political quarters that you have won this election under false pretences.”