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Updated: May 6, 2025
It was suggested that he should stand for a constituency in the Conservative interest. Lord Faramond, himself picturesque, acute, with a keen knowledge of character and a taste for originality, saw material for a useful supporter fearless, independent, with a gift for saying ironical things, and some primitive and fundamental principles well digested.
And it was so. Little Grapnel was Conservative. It was mostly a matter of nomination, and in two weeks Gaston, in a kind of dream, went down to Westminster, lunched with Lord Faramond, and was introduced to the House. The Ladies Gallery was full, for the matter was in all the papers, and a pretty sensation had been worked up one way and another.
Then came Gaston's decision he would come back not to live the thing down, but to hold his place as long as he could: to fight. Lord Faramond shrugged a shoulder. "Without her?" "I cannot say that." "With her, I can promise nothing nothing. You cannot fight it so. No one man is stronger than massed opinion. It is merely a matter of pressure. No, no; I can promise nothing in that case."
He felt that none had an interest in him such as she: shamed, sorrowful, denied the compensating comfort which his brother's love might give her. Her face, looking through the barriers, pale, glowing, anxious, almost weird, seemed set to the bars of a cage. Gaston turned upon the House, and flashed a glance towards Lord Faramond, who, turned round on the Treasury Bench, was looking up at him.
Make it up with his grandfather, and reverse the record reverse the record: that was the only way. This meeting must, of course, be strictly between themselves. But he was really interested for him, for his people, and for the tradition of the Commons. "I am Master of the Hounds too," said Gaston dryly. Lord Faramond caught the meaning, and smiled grimly.
Then came Gaston's decision he would come back not to live the thing down, but to hold his place as long as he could: to fight. Lord Faramond shrugged a shoulder. "Without her?" "I cannot say that." "With her, I can promise nothing nothing. You cannot fight it so. No one man is stronger than massed opinion. It is merely a matter of pressure. No, no; I can promise nothing in that case."
"Who could have guessed that he knew so much about the poor and the East End, and all those social facts and figures?" Lady Belward answered complacently. "An unusual mind, with a singular taste for history, and yet a deep observation of the present. I don't know when and how he does it. I really do not know." "It is nice to think that Lord Faramond approves of him." "Most noticeable.
Gaston, smiling, said that he would only be a buffalo fretting on a chain. Lord Faramond replied: "And why the chain?" He followed this up by saying: "It is but a case of playing lion-tamer down there. Have one little gift all your own, know when to impose it, and you have the pleasure of feeling that your fingers move a great machine, the greatest in the world yes the very greatest.
Lord Faramond twisted a shoulder with satisfaction, tossed a whimsical look down the line of the Treasury Bench, and from that Bench came unusual applause. "Where the devil did he get it?" queried a Minister. "Out on the buffalo-trail," replied Lord Faramond. "Good fellow!"
There was a look in her face that he could not understand. They ate their dinner quietly, not mentioning the events of the afternoon. Presently a telegram was brought to him. It read: "Come. My office, Downing Street, Friday. Expect you." It was signed "Faramond." At the same time came letters: from his grandfather, from Captain Maudsley. The first was stern, imperious, reproachful.
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