“Can’t you get hold of Mr. Vennard and forcibly cut his hair?”
Deloraine looked round with a start. Miss Barriton’s tone was intimate and her face friendly.
“Some people think it picturesque,” he said in serious bewilderment.
“Oh, yes, picturesque—like a hairdresser’s young man!” she shrugged her shoulders. “He looks as if he had never been out of doors in his life.”
Now, whatever the faults of Tommy’s appearance, he had a wholesome sunburnt face, and he knew it. This speech of Miss Barriton’s cheered him enormously, for he argued that if she had fallen out of love with Vennard’s looks she might fall in love with his own. Being a philosopher in his way, he was content to take what the gods gave, and ask for no explanations.
I do not know how their conversation prospered, for my attention was distracted by the extraordinary behaviour of the Home Secretary. Mr. Cargill had made himself notorious by his treatment of “political” prisoners. It was sufficient in his eyes for a criminal to confess to political convictions to secure the most lenient treatment and a speedy release. The Irish patriot who cracked skulls in the Scotland Division of Liverpool, the Suffragist who broke windows and the noses of the police, the Social Democrat whose antipathy to the Tsar revealed itself in assaults upon the Russian Embassy, the “hunger-marchers” who had designs on the British Museum—all were sure of respectful and tender handling. He had announced more than once, amid tumultuous cheering, that he would never be the means of branding earnestness, however mistaken, with the badge of the felon.
He was talking I recall, to Lady Lavinia Dobson, renowned in two hemispheres for her advocacy of women’s rights. And this was what I heard him say. His face had grown suddenly flushed and his eye bright, so that he looked liker than ever to a bookmaker who had had a good meeting. “No, no, my dear lady, I have been a lawyer, and it is my duty in office to see that the law, the palladium of British liberties is kept sacrosanct. The law is no respecter of persons, and I intend that it shall be no respecter of creeds. If men or women break the laws, to jail they shall go, though their intentions were those of the Apostle Paul. We don’t punish them for being Socialists or Suffragists, but for breaking the peace. Why, goodness me, if we didn’t, we should have every malefactor in Britain claiming preferential treatment because he was a Christian Scientist or a Pentecostal Dancer.”
“Mr. Cargill, do you realise what you are saying?” said Lady Lavinia with a scared face.
“Of course I do. I am a lawyer, and may be presumed to know the law. If any other doctrine were admitted, the Empire would burst up in a fortnight.”
“That I should live to hear you name that accursed name!” cried the outraged lady. “You are denying your gods, Mr. Cargill. You are forgetting the principles of a lifetime.”
Mr. Cargill was becoming excited, and exchanging his ordinary Edinburgh-English for a broader and more effective dialect.
“Tut, tut, my good wumman, I may be allowed to know my own principles best. I tell ye I’ve always maintained these views from the day when I first walked the floor of the Parliament House. Besides, even if I hadn’t, I’m surely at liberty to change if I get more light. Whoever makes a fetish of consistency is a trumpery body and little use to God or man. What ails ye at the Empire, too? Is it not better to have a big country than a kailyard, or a house in Grosvenor Square than a but-and-ben in Balham?”
Lady Lavinia folded her hands. “We slaughter our black fellow-citizens, we fill South Africa with yellow slaves, we crowd the Indian prisons with the noblest and most enlightened of the Indian race, and we call it Empire building!”
“No, we don’t,” said Mr. Cargill stoutly, “we call it common-sense. That is the penal and repressive side of any great activity. D’ye mean to tell me that you never give your maid a good hearing? But would you like it to be said that you spent the whole of your days swearing at the wumman?”
“I never swore in my life,” said Lady Lavinia.
“I spoke metaphorically,” said Mr. Cargill. “If ye cannot understand a simple metaphor, ye cannot understand the rudiments of politics.”
Picture to yourself a prophet who suddenly discovers that his God is laughing at him, a devotee whose saint winks and tells him that the devotion of years has been a farce, and you will get some idea of Lady Lavinia’s frame of mind. Her sallow face flushed, her lip trembled, and she slewed round as far as her chair would permit her. Meanwhile Mr. Cargill, redder than before, went on contentedly with his dinner.
I was glad when my aunt gave the signal to rise. The atmosphere was electric, and all were conscious of it save the three Ministers, Deloraine, and Miss Claudia. Vennard seemed to be behaving very badly. He was arguing with Caerlaverock down the table, and the ex-Viceroy’s face was slowly getting purple. When the ladies had gone, we remained oblivious to wine and cigarettes, listening to this heated controversy which threatened any minute to end in a quarrel.
The subject was India, and Vennard was discussing on the follies of all Viceroys.
“Take this idiot we’ve got now,” he declared. “He expects me to be a sort of wet-nurse to
