decided voice.

Mrs. Liversedge was obviously Denzil Quarrier's sister; she had his
eyes and his nose--not uncomely features. It did not appear that her
seven children were robust at their mother's expense; she ate with
undisguised appetite, laughed readily (just showing excellent teeth),
and kept a shapely figure, clad with simple becomingness. Her age was
about eight-and-thirty, that of her husband forty-five. This couple--if
any in England--probably knew the meaning of happiness. Neither had
experienced narrow circumstances, and the future could but confirm
their security from sordid cares. Even if seven more children were
added to their family, all would be brought up amid abundance, and sent
forth into the world as well equipped for its struggles as the
tenderest heart could desire. Father and mother were admirably matched;
they knew each other perfectly, thought the same thoughts on all
essential matters, exchanged the glances of an absolute and unshakeable
confidence.

Seeing him thus at the end of his table, one would not have thought Mr.
Liversedge a likely man to stand forth on political platforms and
appeal to the populace of the borough for their electoral favour. He
looked modest and reticent; his person was the reverse of commanding. A
kind and thoughtful man, undoubtedly; but in his eye was no gleam of
ambition, and it seemed doubtful whether he would care to trouble
himself much about questions of public policy. Granted his position and
origin, it was natural enough that he should take a stand on the
Liberal side, but it could hardly be expected that he should come up to
Mr. Chown's ideal of a Progressive leader.

He was talking lightly on the subject with his brother-in-law.

"I should have thought," he said, "that William Glazzard might have had
views that way. He's a man with no ties and, I should say, too much
leisure."

"Oh," exclaimed Mrs. Liversedge, "the idea of his getting up to make
speeches! It always seems to me as if he found it a trouble even to
talk. His brother would be far more likely, wouldn't he, Denzil?"

"What, Eustace Glazzard?" replied Quarrier. "He regards Parliament and
everything connected with it with supreme contempt. Suggest the thing
when he comes this evening, and watch his face."

"What is he doing?" Mr. Liversedge asked.

"Collecting pictures, playing the fiddle, gazing at sunflowers, and so
on. He'll never do anything else."

"How contradictory you are in spea