On a fine afternoon Jack Rock stood smoking his pipe on the pavement of High Street. His back was towards the road, his face turned to his own shop-window, where was displayed a poster of such handsome dimensions that it covered nearly the whole of the plate glass, to the prejudice of Jack's usual display of mutton and beef. He took no account of that; he was surveying the intruding poster with enormous complacency. It announced that there would be held, under the auspices of the Meriton Conservative and Unionist Association, an open-air Public Meeting that evening on Fyfold Green. Chairman—The Rt. Hon. Lord Meriton (his lordship was rarely "drawn;" his name indicated a great occasion). Speakers—William Foot, Esq., K. C., M. P. (very large letters); Henry Belfield, Esq., Prospective Candidate etc. (letters not quite so large); and Andrew Hayes, Esq. (letters decidedly smaller, but still easily legible from across the street). Needless to say that it was the sight of the last name which caused Mr. Jack Rock's extreme complacency. He had put up the stakes; now he was telling himself that the "numbers" were up for the race. Andy was in good company—too good, of course, for a colt like him on the present occasion; but in Jack's mind the race comprised more than one meeting. There was plenty of time for the colt to train on! Meanwhile there he was, on a platform with Lord Meriton, with Mr. Foot, King's Counsel, Member of Parliament (Jack's thoughts rehearsed these titles—the former of which Billy had recently achieved—at full length, for all the world like the toastmaster at a public dinner), and Mr. Henry Belfield, Prospective Candidate etc. Mr. Rock hurled at himself many contemptuous and opprobrious epithets when he recollected the career which he had once offered for the grateful acceptance of Andrew Hayes, Esq. To him the poster was a first and splendid dividend on the three thousand pounds which Miss Doris Flower had so prettily extracted from his pocket. Here was his return; he willingly left to Andy the mere pecuniary fruits of the investment.

Thus immensely gratified, Jack refused to own that he was surprised. The autumn campaign had now been in progress nearly three weeks, and, although Andy had not been heard before in Meriton, reports of his doings had come in from outlying villages with which Jack had business dealings. Nay, Mr. Belfield of Halton himself, who had braved the evening air by going to one meeting to hear his son, found time to stop at the shop and tell Jack that he had been favourably impressed by Andy.

"No flowers of rhetoric, Jack," he said with twinkling eyes, "such as my boy indulges in, but good sound sense—knows his facts. I shouldn't wonder if the labourers like that better. He knows what their bacon costs 'em, and how many loaves a week go to a family of six, and so on. I heard one or two old fellows saying 'Aye, that's right!' half a dozen times while he was speaking. I wish our old friend at the grammar school could have heard him!"

"Yes, Mr. Belfield; the old gentleman would have been proud, wouldn't he?"

"And you've a right to be proud, Jack. I know what you've done for the lad."

"He's a good lad, sir. He comes to supper with me every Sunday, punctual, when he's in Meriton."

"You've every reason to hope he'll do very well—a sensible steady fellow! It'd be a good thing if there were more like him." Then Chinks and the Bird had made an excursion on their bicycles to hear Andy, and brought back laudatory accounts—this though Chinks was suspected of Radical leanings, which he was not allowed by his firm to obtrude. And old Cox had heard him and pronounced the verdict that, though he might be no flyer like Mr. Harry, yet he had the makings of a horse in him. "Wants work, and can stand as much as you give him," said Mr. Cox.

Immersed in a contemplation of the placard and in the reflections it evoked, Mr. Rock stepped backwards into the road in order to get a new view of the relative size of the lettering. Thereby he nearly lost his life, and made Andy present possessor of a tidy bit of money for which, in the natural course, he would have to wait many years. (This is trenching on old Jack's darling secret.) The agitated hoot of a motor-car sent him on a jump back to the pavement, just in time. The car came to a standstill.

"I didn't come all this way on purpose to kill you, Mr. Rock!"

Jack had turned round already, in order to swear at his all but murderer, who might reasonably have pleaded contributory negligence. Angry words died away. A small figure, enveloped in a dust cloak, wrapped about the head with an infinite number of yards of soft fabric, sat alone in the back of the car. The driver yawned, surveying Meriton with a scornful air, appearing neither disturbed by Mr. Rock's danger nor gratified by his escape.

"It's so convenient," the small figure proceeded to observe, "when people have their names written over their houses. Still I think I should have known you without that. Andy has described you to me, you see."

"Why, it's never—?" The broadest smile spread on Jack Rock's face.

"Oh yes, it is! I always keep my word. I'm taking a holiday, and I thought I'd combine my visit to you with—" She suddenly broke off her sentence, and gave a gurgle. Jack thought it a curiously pleasant sound. "Why, there it is!" the Nun gurgled, pointing a finger at the wonderful placard in Jack's window.

"You're—you're Miss Flower?" gasped Jack.

"Yes, yes—but look at it! Those three boys! Billy, and Harry—and Andy! Andy! Well, of course, one knows they do do things, but somehow it's so hard to realise. I shall certainly stay for the meeting! Seymour, let me out!"

Seymour got down in a leisurely fashion, hiding a yawn with one hand and a cigarette in the other. "I suppose there isn't a hotel in this place, Miss Flower?" he remarked. (Seymour always called the Nun "Miss Flower," never merely "Miss.")

"Oh yes; the Lion, Seymour. Excellent hotel, isn't it, Mr. Rock? Kept by Mr. Dove, who's got a son named the Bird; and the Bird's got a friend named Chinks, and—"

"Well, you do beat creation!" cried Jack. "How do you—?"

"Secret sources of information!" said the Nun gravely. "Have I got to go to the Lion, Mr. Rock? Or—or what time do you have tea?"

"You'll have tea with me, miss?" cried Jack.

"At what hour will you require the car, Miss Flower?" asked Seymour.

"You're goin' to the meetin', miss? Tell the young chap to be round at six, and mind he's punctual."

"Do as Mr. Rock says, Seymour," smiled the Nun. It was part of the day's fun to hear Seymour ordered about—and called a young chap!—by the butcher of Meriton. But she could not get into the house without another look at the poster. "Billy, Harry—and Andy! I wonder if those boys really imagine that what they say or think matters!"

Miss Flower was already a privileged person. Jack had no rebuke for her profanity. She took his arm, saying, "I want to see the shop. You wanted Andy to have the shop, didn't you?"

"I was an old fool. I—I meant it well, Miss Flower."

The Nun squeezed his arm.

"Were these nice animals when they were alive, Mr. Rock?"

"Prime uns, alive or dead!" chuckled Jack. "You come back to supper, after the meetin', miss, and taste; but maybe you'll be goin' back to London, or takin' your supper at Halton?"

"I'm sorry, but I've promised to take Billy Foot back to town. Oh, but tea now, Mr. Rock!"

Not even the messenger boy whom she had sent enjoyed Jack Rock's tea more than the Nun herself. For a girl of her inches, she ate immensely; even more heartily she praised. Jack could hardly eat at all, she was so daintily wonderful, her being there at all so amazing. Seeking explanation of the marvel, the simple affectionate old fellow could come only on one. She must be very fond of Andy! She had written to plead for Andy; she came and had tea with the old butcher—because he had given Andy help. And now she was lauding Andy, telling him in her quiet way that his lad was much thought of by her and her smart friends in London. Jack had, of course, a very inadequate realisation of what "smartness" in London really meant—a view which some might have called both inadequate and charitable.

"Yes, he's a fine lad, miss. I say, the girl as gets Andy'll be lucky!" (That "as" always tripped Jack up in moments of thoughtlessness.)

The Nun deliberately disposed of a piece of plum cake and a sip of tea—the latter to wash the former down.

"I don't fall in love myself," she observed, in a tone decided yet tolerant—as though she had said, "I don't take liqueurs myself—but if you like to risk it!"

"You miss the best thing in life, miss," Jack cried.

"And most of the worst too," added the Nun serenely.

"Don't say it, miss. It don't come well from your pretty lips."

"Have I put you on your mettle? I meant to, of course, Mr. Rock."

Old Jack slapped his thigh, laughing immensely. Now wasn't this good—that she should be here, having tea, getting at him like that?

It was a happy conjuncture, for the Nun was hardly less well pleased. She divided her life into two categories; one was "the mill," the other was "fun." The mill included making a hundred and eighty pounds by singing two silly songs eight times each every week, being much adored, and eating meals at that restaurant; "fun" meant anything rather different. Having tea with Jack Rock, the Meriton butcher, was rather different, and Miss Flower (as Seymour called her—almost the only person who did) was enjoying herself.

"I should like to take a walk along the street before we go to the meeting, Jack."

"Jack," casually dropped, with no more than a distant twinkle, finished Mr. Rock.

"Your letter was pretty good, but you, miss—!"

"I'm considered attractive on a postcard. It costs a penny," said the Nun, rising, fully refreshed, from the table. "Take me to the Lion, please. I must see that Seymour isn't dissatisfied. He's a gentleman by birth, you know, and a chauffeur by profession. So he rather alarms me, though his manner is always carefully indifferent." This remark of hers suddenly pleased the Nun. She gurgled; her own rare successes always gratified her—witness that somewhat stupid story about the two ladies and Tommy, told a long while ago.

Accompanied by proud Jack Rock, she traversed Meriton High Street, greatly admiring the church, the grammar school, and that ancient and respectable hostelry, the Lion. Indeed she fell so much in love with the Lion that she questioned Jack as to the accommodation it provided, and was assured that it boasted a private sitting-room, with oak panelling and oak beams across the ceiling (always supposed to be irresistible attractions to London visitors), and bedrooms sufficient in case she and Miss Dutton should be minded to spend a part of their holiday there. Room also for a maid—and for Seymour and the motor. "It's rather a nice idea. I'll think it over," she said.

Then it was time to think about the meeting; and Jack must come with her in the car, sit with her, and tell her all about it. "Oh yes, you must!"

"I shall never hear the last of it, long as I live!" Jack protested, half in delight, half in a real shyness.

Behold them, then, thus installed on the outskirts of the meeting, with a good view of the platform where "the boys" were seated, together with Wellgood, supporting the great Lord Meriton. Vivien and Isobel also had chairs at the back. The Nun produced a field-glass from a pocket in the car, and favoured these ladies with a steady inspection. "Which did you say was Harry's?" she asked.

"The fair one, miss—that's Miss Wellgood."

"The other's quite good-looking too," the Nun pronounced.

The salient features of Mr. Foot's oratory have been indicated on a previous occasion. This evening he surpassed himself in epigram and logic; no doubt he desired to overcome the Nun's obstinate scepticism as to his career, no less than to maintain his popularity in Meriton. For the Nun he had a special treat—a surprise. He told them her story of Tommy and the two ladies, slightly adapting it to the taste of a general audience; the cheques were softened down to invitations to tÊte-À-tÊte dinners, couched in highly affectionate language. In Billy's apologue the Ministry was Tommy, one of the ladies was Liberalism, the other Socialism. The apologue took on very well; Billy made great play with Tommy's double flirtation, and the Ministry's double flirtation, ending up, "Yes, gentlemen, there will be only one tip to pay the waiter, but that'll be a tip-over, if I'm not much mistaken!" (Cheers and laughter.)

The Nun was smiling all over her face. "That really was rather clever of Billy." She felt herself shining with reflected glory.

But Billy—astute electioneerer—meant to get more out of the Nun than just that Tommy story. When he had finished a wonderful peroration, in which he bade Meriton decide once and for all—it would probably never have another chance before it was too late—between Imperial greatness and Imperial decay, he slipped from the platform, and made his way round the skirts of the meeting to her motor-car. Lord Meriton's compliments, and would Miss Flower oblige him and delight the meeting by singing the National Anthem at the close of the proceedings? The Nun was so agitated by this request that she lost most of Andy's speech; he was sandwiched in between the more famous orators. As Andy—from what she did hear—appeared to be talking about loaves, and sugar, and bacon, and things of that sort, she was of opinion that she was not missing very much, and was surprised to see the men listening and the bareheaded women nodding approvingly and nudging one another in the ribs. "He's jolly good! Upon my word, he is," said Billy Foot suddenly, and old Jack chuckled delightedly. When Andy sat down, without any peroration, she said to Billy, "Was he good? It sounded rather dull to me. Yours was fine, Billy!"

"Awfully glad you liked it. But they'll forget my jokes; they'll talk about old Andy's figures when they get home. Every woman in the place'll want to prove 'em right or wrong. Gad, how he must have mugged all that up!"

Then came Harry; to him she listened, at him she looked. Whatever the difficulties of his private life might be, they did not avail to spoil his speaking; it is conceivable that they improved it, since nerves on the strain sometimes result in brilliant flashes. And he looked so handsome, with pale, eager, excited face. He could fall in love with a subject almost as deeply, almost as quickly, as with a woman, and for the moment be hardly less devoted to it, heart and soul. Perhaps he was a little over the heads of most of his audience, but they knew that it was a fine performance and were willing to take for granted some things which they did not understand.

"That's talking, that is!" said a man near the car. "Mr. Harry's the one to give ye that."

Of course the Nun was persuaded in the matter of the National Anthem. Billy led her round to the platform, where Lord Meriton welcomed her, and introduced her to the meeting as Miss Doris Flower, the famous London singer, who had kindly consented to sing the National Anthem. For once in her life the Nun was very nervous, but she sang. Her sweet voice and her remarkable prettiness stormed the meeting. They would have another song. The applause brought back her confidence. Before she had become a nun or a Quaker she had once been, in early days, a Cameron Highlander. A couple of martial and patriotic ditties remained in her memory; she gave them one, and excited enthusiasm. They cried for more—more! An encore was insisted upon. In spite of the brilliant speakers, the Nun was the heroine of the evening. She bowed, she smiled, she fell altogether in love with Meriton. Thoughts of the Lion rose strongly in her mind.

"A great success, and we owe a great deal of it to you, Miss Flower," said the noble chairman. "You just put the crown on it all. I wish we could have you here at election time!"

The whole platform besought the Nun to come down at election time with more patriotic songs. Most urgent was the pretty, slight, fair girl who was Harry Belfield's fiancÉe. Her eyes were so friendly and gentle that the Nun could refuse her nothing.

"At one bound, Doris, you've become a personage in Meriton," laughed Billy Foot.

"She's a personage wherever she goes," said Andy in frank and affectionate admiration.

The Nun gurgled happily. But where was her old friend Harry with his congratulations? He had greeted her, but not with much enthusiasm; he was now talking to the other girl—Miss Vintry—in a low voice, with a frown on his face; he looked weary and spent. She moved over to him and laid her hand on his arm; he started violently.

"I'll never laugh at you about your speeches again, Harry. But, poor old fellow, how done up you look!" "Doing this sort of thing every night's pretty tiring."

"Besides all the other things you have to do just now! I think I must come and stay at the Lion and look after you."

Harry looked at her with an expression that puzzled her; it almost seemed like resentment, though the idea was surely absurd. Miss Vintry said nothing; she stood by in silent composure.

"You're thinking of—of coming to Meriton?"

"I had an idea of it, for a week or two. I'm doing nothing, you know. Sally would come with me."

"I should think you'd find it awfully dull," said Harry.

The Nun could not make him out. Was he ashamed of her? Did he not want her to know Miss Wellgood, his fiancÉe? It almost looked like that. The Nun was a little hurt. She was aware that certain people held certain views; but Harry was an old, old friend. "Well, if I do come and find it dull, you needn't feel responsible. You haven't pressed me, have you?" and with a little laugh she went back to more expansive friends.

"That'd make another of them, and she's infernally sharp!" Harry said to Isobel Vintry, in that low careful voice to which he was nowadays so much addicted.

"Oh well, we can't keep it up this way long anyhow," she answered, and sauntered off to join Vivien.

With Billy, with Andy, as with old Jack, the Nun found enthusiasm enough and to spare.

"How perfectly ripping an idea!" cried Billy. "Because Harry's governor had asked me to stay a fortnight at Halton, and do half a dozen more meetings; and I'm going to. And Andy'll be down here too. Why, we shall all be together! You come, Doris!"

Her hurt feelings found expression. "Harry didn't seem to want me when I spoke to him about it."

Billy Foot looked at her curiously. "Oh, didn't he?" Andy had moved off with Jack Rock. "It's a funny thing, but I don't think he wants me at Halton. He was far from enthusiastic. If you ask me, Doris, there's something wrong with him. Overworked, I suppose. Oh, but he can't be; these little meetings are no trouble."

"If I want to come, I shall. Only one doesn't like the idea that one's friends are ashamed—"

"Oh, rot, it can't be that! That's not a bit like Harry."

"He's engaged now, you know." "Well, I can't see why that should make any difference. He's got the blues over something or other; never mind him. You come, you and Sally."

She lowered her voice. "Can it be because of poor old Sally?"

"Oh, I don't think so. He's always been awfully kind about that wretched old business."

"It's something," she persisted with a vexed frown.

Vivien Wellgood came up to them with Andy. "Mr. Hayes tells me you may possibly come to Meriton for a stay, Miss Flower. I do hope you will. The Lion's quite good, and we'll all do all we can to amuse you, if only you'll sing to us just now and then. Do say you'll come; don't only think about it!"

"Your being so kind makes me want to come more," said the Nun. "Oh, and I do congratulate you, Miss Wellgood. I hope you'll be ever so happy."

"Thank you. I hope so," said Vivien softly, her eyes assuming their veiled look.

The car was waiting; Seymour was yawning and looking at his watch. The Nun said her farewells, but not one to Harry Belfield, who had already strolled off along the road. Not very polite of Harry! "Did you like the speeches, Seymour?" she inquired.

"Mr. Foot, of course, is a good speaker. The other gentlemen did very well for such a meeting as this, Miss Flower. Mr. Belfield is very promising."

"Was I in good voice?"

"Very fair. But you had better not use it much in the open air. Not good for the chords, Miss Flower."

Meanwhile he had skilfully tucked her in with Billy Foot, and off they went, Billy comforting himself after his labours with a pull at his flask and a very big cigar.

"I've made you do some work for the good cause to-night, Doris," he remarked. "A song or two goes jolly well at a meeting."

"Thinking of enlisting me in your own service?" she asked.

"You'd be uncommon valuable. The man they're putting up against me has got a pretty wife." Billy allowed himself a glance; it met with inadequate appreciation.

"Oh, I'll come and sing for you if you ask me, Billy." Her voice sounded absent. She was enjoying the motion and the air, but her thoughts were with Vivien Wellgood, the girl who had been so kind, and whose eyes had gone blank when the Nun wished her happiness. "Yes, Harry's off colour," said Billy, puffing away with much enjoyment. "He can't take anything right; didn't even like your story!"

"Why, you brought it in so cleverly, Billy!"

"Harry asked me what I thought they'd make of that kind of rot. It seemed to me they took it all right. Rather liked it, didn't they?"

The Nun turned to him suddenly. "That girl isn't happy."

"There's something up!" Billy concluded.

"Do you know that Miss Vintry well?"

Billy took his cigar out of his mouth and looked at her. "You do jump to conclusions."

"Oh, I know Harry better than any of you."

"Do you?" he asked, seeming just a little disturbed.

The Nun marked his disturbance with a side glance of amusement, but she was not diverted from the main line of her thoughts. "He doesn't want me to come to Meriton—"

"I say, Doris, did Harry Belfield ever try to—?"

"Tales out of school? I thought you knew me, Billy."

The reproach carried home to Billy. There had been one occasion when, over-night, his career had seemed not so imperative, and Doris had seemed very imperative indeed, demanding vows and protestations of high fervour, bearing only one legitimate interpretation. This happened long before Billy was K.C. or M.P., and when his income was still meagre. The morning had brought back counsel, and thoughts of the career. Billy had written a letter. The next time they met, she had taken occasion to observe that she always burnt letters, just as she never fell in love. The episode was not among Billy's proudest recollections. In telling Andy that Billy had always pulled himself up on the brink, the Nun had been guilty of just this one suppression. No tales out of school was always her motto.

"If he does come to grief, it'll be over a woman," said Billy. He took a big puff. "That's the only thing worth coming to grief over, either," he added, looking into his companion's eyes.

"What about the great cause I sang for?" she asked, serenely evasive. Sentiment in a motor-car at night really does not count.

Billy laughed. "I do my best for my client."

"But you believe it?"

"Honestly, I believe we've got, say, seven points out of ten. So we ought to get the verdict."

"I suppose that's honest enough. You leave the other side to put their three points?"

"That oughtn't to be over-straining them," Billy opined. "Politics are rather curious. I might go to another meeting or two while I'm at Meriton; but I won't sing out of doors any more. Seymour doesn't approve of it."

"You're really going to take rooms there?"

"Yes, if Sally consents." She turned round to him. "Do you know what it is to see somebody asking for help?"

"To me they always call it temporary assistance."

"Yes. Well, I think I saw that to-night." She was silent a minute, then she gurgled. "And really they're all great fun, you know."

"I look forward to our stay at Meriton with the gravest apprehension," said Billy Foot.

The Nun looked at him, smiled, looked away, looked back once more.

"Well, I shall have nothing else to do—in the way of recreation," she said.

A long silence followed. Billy threw away the stump of his cigar.

"Hang it, he's got the style, that fellow has!"

"Who's got what style?" asked the Nun. Her voice sounded drowsy.

"What the House likes—Andy."

"What house?" drawled the Nun, terribly and happily sleepy.

"Oh, you're a lively girl to drive home with in a motor at night!" Her eyes were closed, her lips ever so little parted. Half asleep, still she smiled. He made a trumpet of his hands and shouted into her ear. "The House of Commons, stupid!"

"Don't tickle my ear," said the Nun. "And try if you can't be quiet!"