er husband of a certain prominent townsman driven to
such a pass by his wife's perpetual absence from home on revivalist
expeditions, that he at length fairly turned the key on her in her
bedroom, and through the keyhole bade her stay there till she had
remembered her domestic duties. He was that night publicly prayed for at
a great meeting in the Corn Exchange as one who, not content with losing
his own soul, did his best to hold back others from the way of grace.

Beatrice affected to pay no heed to this anecdote.

'What is your side in politics?' she asked Wilfrid. 'Here we are all
either Blues or Yellows.'

'What do they represent?' Wilfrid inquired.

'Oh, you shouldn't ask that,' said Mrs. Baxendale. 'Yellow is yellow,
and Blue, blue; nothing else in the world. I think it an excellent idea
to use colours. Liberal and Conservative suggest ideas; names,
therefore, quite out of place in Dunfield politics--or any other
politics, I dare say, if the truth were known. My husband is a Yellow.
It pleases him to call himself a Liberal, or else a Radical. He may have
been a few months ago; now he's a mere Yellow. I tell him he's in
serious danger of depriving himself of two joys; in another month a
cloudless sky and the open sea will he detestable to him.'

'But what are you, Mr. Athel?' Beatrice asked. 'A Liberal or a
Conservative? I should really find it hard to guess.'

'In a Yellow house,' he replied, 'I am certainly Yellow.'

'Beatrice is far from being so complaisant,' said Mrs. Baxendale. 'She
detests our advanced views.'

'Rather, I know nothing of them,' the girl replied. The quiet air with
which she expressed her indifference evinced a measure of spiritual
pride rather in excess of that she was wont to show. Indeed, her manner
throughout the conversation was a little distant to both her companions.
If she jested with Wilfrid it was with the idleness of one condescending
to subjects below the plane of her interests. To her aunt she was rather
courteous than affectionate.

Whilst they still sat over tea, Mr. Baxendale came in. Like his wife, he
was of liberal proportions, and he had a face full of practical
sagacity; if anything, he looked too wide awake, a fault of shrewd men,
constitutionally active, whose imagination plays little part in their
lives. He wore an open frock-coat, with much expanse of shirt-front. The
fore part of his head was bald, and the hair on each side was brushed
forward over his ears