Passing the newspaper hubbub of Charing Cross, frenzied by the political crisis, he turned up to the left towards Danby and Winter, publishers, where his son was junior partner. A new theme for a book had just begun to bend a mind which had already produced a ‘Life of Montrose,’ ‘Far Cathay,’ that work of Eastern travel, and a fanciful conversation between the shades of Gladstone and Disraeli—entitled ‘A Duet.’ With every step taken, from ‘Snooks’ eastward, his erect thin figure in Astrakhan-collared coat, his thin grey-moustached face, and tortoise-shell rimmed monocle under the lively dark eyebrow, had seemed more rare. It became almost a phenomenon in this dingy back street, where carts stuck like winter flies, and persons went by with books under their arms, as if educated.

He had nearly reached the door of Danby’s when he encountered two young men. One of them was clearly his son, better dressed since his marriage, and smoking a cigar—thank goodness—instead of those eternal cigarettes; the other—ah! yes—Michael’s sucking poet and best man, head in air, rather a sleek head under a velour hat! He said:

“Ha, Michael!”

“HALLO, Bart! You know my governor, Wilfrid? Wilfrid Desert. ‘Copper Coin’—some poet, Bart, I tell you. You must read him. We’re going home. Come along!”

Sir Lawrence went along.

“What happened at ‘Snooks’?”

“Le roi est mort. Labour can start lying, Michael—election next month.”

“Bart was brought up, Wilfrid, in days that knew not Demos.”

“Well, Mr. Desert, do you find reality in politics now?”

“Do you find reality in anything, sir?”

“In income tax, perhaps.”

Michael grinned.

“Above knighthood,” he said, “there’s no such thing as simple faith.”

“Suppose your friends came into power, Michael—in some ways not a bad thing, help ’em to grow up—what could they do, eh? Could they raise national taste? Abolish the cinema? Teach English people to cook? Prevent other countries from threatening war? Make us grow our own food? Stop the increase of town life? Would they hang dabblers in poison gas? Could they prevent flying in war-time? Could they weaken the possessive instinct—anywhere? Or do anything, in fact, but alter the incidence of possession a little? All party politics are top dressing.