nce at her insight into
his thoughts and at her frankness in facing what she found there. For
did she not in truth mean that she might want help most on some occasion
when the loyalty he had himself approved would forbid her to reveal her
distress to him or to seek his succour? He ventured, after an instant's
hesitation, on one word.

"After all," he said, "you can't trundle the world's wheelbarrow in
white kid gloves; at least you soil them."

"Then why trundle it?" she asked. "At any rate you needn't say that sort
of thing. Leave that to Mr. Blair."

Not only was the time when everybody had to be bestirring themselves
approaching rapidly, but the appearance of Sir Winterton Mildmay in the
list quickened the Quisantes' departure for the scene of action. Rooms
were taken at the Bull in Henstead, an election agent appointed,
resources calculated--this involved a visit to Aunt Maria--and matters
got into fighting trim. During this period May had again full cause to
thank her power of humour; it almost scattered the gloomy and (as she
told herself) fanciful apprehensions which had gathered round, and
allowed her to study with amusement her husband's preparations. He
talked very freely to her always about his political views, and now he
consulted her on the very important question of his Election Address. He
reminded her of a man packing his portmanteau for a trip and not quite
knowing what he would want, whether (for example) shooting boots would
come in useful, or warm underclothing be essential. Space was limited,
needs difficult to foresee, climate very uncertain. Some things were
obviously necessary, such as the cry on which the Government was going
to the country; others were sure to be serviceable; in went "something
for Labour" (she gathered the phrase from Quisante's rough notes); odd
corners held little pet articles of the owner's things which he had
found unexpectedly useful on a previous journey, or which might seem
especially adapted to the part of the world he was going to visit. On
the local requirements Mr. Foster the maltster was a very Baedeker. With
constant effort on Quisante's part, with almost unfailing amusement on
his wife's, the portmanteau got itself filled.

"Are you sure there's nothing else, Alexander?" she asked.

"I think I've got everything that's of real service," said he. "I don't
want to overload it."

Of course not; excess luggage may be very expensive. May was smiling as
she hande