In a committee-room at the Constitutional Literary
Society was held an informal meeting of Conservatives, but no one of
them had definite intelligence to communicate. Somebody had told
somebody else that Hugh Welwyn-Baker held that important telegram
from his father; that was all. Mr. Mumbray's hopes rose high. On the
morrow, at another meeting rather differently constituted (miserable
lack of organization still evident among the Tories), it was made
known on incontestable authority that the sitting Member _would_
offer himself for re-election. Mr. Mumbray and his supporters held
high language. "It would be party suicide," they went about
repeating. With such a man as Denzil Quarrier on the Radical side,
they _must_ have a new and a strong candidate! But all was
confusion; no one could take the responsibility of acting.
Already the affairs of the Liberals were in perfect crier, and it
took but a day or two to decide even the minutiae of the
campaign. To Quarrier's candidature no one within the party offered
the least opposition. Mr. Chown, who had for some time reserved his
judgment, declared to all and sundry that "all things considered, a
better man could scarcely have been chosen." Before thus committing
himself he had twice called upon Quarrier, and been closeted with
him for a longtime. Now, in these days of arming, he received a card
inviting him (and his wife) to dine at the candidate's house on a
certain evening a fortnight ahead; it was the second dinner that
Denzil had planned, but Mr.
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