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Nevil’s proclamation.

      ‘I have not met him, and I would rather not. I shall not pretend to offer you advice, for I have the habit of thinking your judgement can stand by itself. We shall all find this affair a nuisance. Nevil will pay through the nose. We shall have the ridicule spattered on the family. It would be a safer thing for him to invest his money on the Turf, and I shall advise his doing it if I come across him.

      ‘Perhaps the best course would be to telegraph for the marquise!’

      This was from Cecil Baskelett. He added a postscript:

      ‘Seriously, the “mad commander” has not an ace of a chance. Grancey and I saw some Working Men (you have to write them in capitals, king and queen small); they were reading the Address on a board carried by a red-nosed man, and shrugging. They are not such fools.

      ‘By the way, I am informed Shrapnel has a young female relative living with him, said to be a sparkler. I bet you, sir, she is not a Radical. Do you take me?’

      Rosamund Culling drove to the railway station on her way to Bevisham within an hour after Mr. Romfrey’s eyebrows had made acute play over this communication.

      CHAPTER XII. AN INTERVIEW WITH THE INFAMOUS DR. SHRAPNEL

      In the High street of the ancient and famous town and port of Bevisham, Rosamund met the military governor of a neighbouring fortress, General Sherwin, once colonel of her husband’s regiment in India; and by him, as it happened, she was assisted in finding the whereabout of the young Liberal candidate, without the degrading recourse of an application at the newspaper-office of his party. The General was leisurely walking to a place of appointment to fetch his daughter home from a visit to an old school-friend, a Miss Jenny Denham, no other than a ward, or a niece, or an adoption of Dr. Shrapnel’s: ‘A nice girl; a great favourite of mine,’ the General said. Shrapnel he knew by reputation only as a wrong-headed politician; but he spoke of Miss Denham pleasantly two or three times, praising her accomplishments and her winning manners. His hearer suspected that it might be done to dissociate the idea of her from the ruffling agitator. ‘Is she pretty?’ was a question that sprang from Rosamund’s intimate reflections. The answer was, ‘Yes.’

      ‘Very pretty?’

      ‘I think very pretty,’ said the General.

      ‘Captivatingly?’

      ‘Clara thinks she is perfect; she is tall and slim, and dresses well. The girls were with a French Madam in Paris. But, if you are interested about her, you can come on with me, and we shall meet them somewhere near the head of the street. I don’t,’ the General hesitated and hummed—‘I don’t call at Shrapnel’s.’

      ‘I have never heard her name before to-day,’ said Rosamund.

      ‘Exactly,’ said the General, crowing at the aimlessness of a woman’s curiosity.

      The young ladies were seen approaching, and Rosamund had to ask herself whether the first sight of a person like Miss Denham would be of a kind to exercise a lively influence over the political and other sentiments of a dreamy sailor just released from ship-service. In an ordinary case she would have said no, for Nevil enjoyed a range of society where faces charming as Miss Denham’s were plentiful as roses in the rose-garden. But, supposing him free of his bondage to the foreign woman, there was, she thought and feared, a possibility that a girl of this description might capture a young man’s vacant heart sighing for a new mistress. And if so, further observation assured her Miss Denham was likely to be dangerous far more than professedly attractive persons, enchantresses and the rest. Rosamund watchfully gathered all the superficial indications which incite women to judge of character profoundly. This new object of alarm was, as the General had said of her, tall and slim, a friend of neatness, plainly dressed, but exquisitely fitted, in the manner of Frenchwomen. She spoke very readily, not too much, and had the rare gift of being able to speak fluently with a smile on the mouth. Vulgar archness imitates it. She won and retained the eyes of her hearer sympathetically, it seemed. Rosamund thought her as little conscious as a woman could be. She coloured at times quickly, but without confusion. When that name, the key of Rosamund’s meditations, chanced to be mentioned, a flush swept over Miss Denham’s face. The candour of it was unchanged as she gazed at Rosamund, with a look that asked, ‘Do you know him?’

      Rosamund said, ‘I am an old friend of his.’

      ‘He is here now, in this town.’

      ‘I wish to see him very much.’

      General Sherwin interposed: ‘We won’t talk about political characters just for the present.’

      ‘I wish you knew him, papa, and would advise him,’ his daughter said.

      The General nodded hastily. ‘By-and-by, by-and-by.’

      They had in fact taken seats at a table of mutton pies in a pastrycook’s shop, where dashing military men were restrained solely by their presence from a too noisy display of fascinations before the fashionable waiting-women.

      Rosamund looked at Miss Denham. As soon as they were in the street the latter said, ‘If you will be good enough to come with me, madam…?’ Rosamund bowed, thankful to have been comprehended. The two young ladies kissed cheeks and parted. General Sherwin raised his hat, and was astonished to see Mrs. Culling join Miss Denham in accepting the salute, for they had not been introduced, and what could they have in common? It was another of the oddities of female nature.

      ‘My name is Mrs. Culling, and I will tell you how it is that I am interested in Captain Beauchamp,’ Rosamund addressed her companion. ‘I am his uncle’s housekeeper. I have known him and loved him since he was a boy. I am in great fear that he is acting rashly.’

      ‘You honour me, madam, by speaking to me so frankly,’ Miss Denham answered.

      ‘He is quite bent upon this Election?’

      ‘Yes, madam. I am not, as you can suppose, in his confidence, but I hear of him from Dr. Shrapnel.’

      ‘Your uncle?’

      ‘I call him uncle: he is my guardian, madam.’

      It is perhaps excuseable that this communication did not cause the doctor to shine with added lustre in Rosamund’s thoughts, or ennoble the young lady.

      ‘You are not relatives, then?’ she said.

      ‘No, unless love can make us so.’

      ‘Not blood-relatives?’

      ‘No.’

      ‘Is he not very… extreme?’

      ‘He is very sincere.’

      ‘I presume you are a politician?’

      Miss Denham smiled. ‘Could you pardon me, madam, if I said that I was?’ The counter-question was a fair retort enfolding a gentler irony. Rosamund felt that she had to do with wits as well as with vivid feminine intuitions in the person of this Miss Denham.

      She said, ‘I really am of opinion that our sex might abstain from politics.’

      ‘We find it difficult to do justice to both parties,’ Miss Denham followed. ‘It seems to be a kind of clanship with women; hardly even that.’

      Rosamund was inattentive to the conversational slipshod, and launched one of the heavy affirmatives which are in dialogue full stops. She could not have said why she was sensible of anger, but the sentiment of anger, or spite (if that be a lesser degree of the same affliction), became stirred in her bosom when she listened to the ward of Dr. Shrapnel. A silly pretty puss of a girl would not have excited it, nor an avowed blood-relative of the demagogue.

      Nevil’s hotel was pointed out to Rosamund, and she left her card there. He had been absent since eight in the morning. There was the probability that he might be at Dr. Shrapnel’s, so Rosamund walked on.

      ‘Captain Beauchamp gives himself no rest,’ Miss Denham said.

      ‘Oh! I know him, when once his mind is set on anything,’ said Rosamund.

      ‘Is it not too early to begin to—canvass, I think,

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