“He won’t be the only one, either,” said Milburn.  “Take my word for it, they’ll be dead sick and sorry over this imperial craze in a year’s time, every Government that’s taken it up.  The people won’t have it.  The Empire looks nice on the map, but when it comes to practical politics their bread and butter’s in the home industries.  There’s a great principle at stake, Winter; I must say I envy you standing up for it under such favourable conditions.  Liberals like Young and Windle may talk big, but when it comes to the ballot-box you’ll have the whole manufacturing interest of the place behind you, and nobody the wiser.  It’s a great thing to carry the standard on an issue above and beyond party politics—­it’s a purer air, my boy.”

Walter Winter’s nod confirmed the sagacity of this, and appreciated the highmindedness.  It was a parting nod; Mr Winter had too much on hand that morning to waste time upon Octavius Milburn; but it was full of the qualities that ensure the success of a man’s relation with his fellows.  Consideration was in it, and understanding, and that kind of geniality that offers itself on a plain business footing, a commercial heartiness that has no nonsense about it.  He had half a dozen casual chats like this with Mr Milburn on his way up Main Street, and his manner expanded in cordiality and respect with each, as if his growing confidence in himself increased his confidence in his fellow-men.  The same assurance greeted him several times over.  Every friend wanted to remind him of the enemy’s exigency, and to assure him that the enemy’s new policy was enough by itself to bring him romping in at last; and to every assurance he presented the same acceptable attitude of desiring for particular reasons to take special note of such valuable views.  At the end he had neither elicited nor imparted a single opinion of any importance; nevertheless, he was quite entitled to his glow of satisfaction.

Among Mr Winter’s qualifications for political life was his capacity to arrive at an estimate of the position of the enemy.  He was never persuaded to his own advantage; he never stepped ahead of the facts.  It was one of the things that made him popular with the other side, his readiness to do justice to their equipment, to acknowledge their chances.  There is gratification of a special sort in hearing your points of vantage confessed by the foe; the vanity is soothed by his open admission that you are worthy of his steel.  It makes you a little less keen somehow, about defeating him.  It may be that Mr Winter had an instinct for this, or perhaps he thought such discourse more profitable, if less pleasant, than derisive talk in the opposite sense.  At all events, he gained something and lost nothing by it, even in his own camp, where swagger might be expected to breed admiration.  He was thought a level-headed fellow who didn’t expect miracles; his forecast in most matters was quoted, and his defeats at the polls had been to some extent neutralized by his sagacity in computing the returns in advance.