him go into Parliament. She declared herself to be an absolutely ferocious Rag-Tag-and-Bobtail, and that, of course, in the present state of the domestic firmament, was quite enough for Mr. Philip.
The Rags, as Mary expounded their faith, were the party of Progress and the friends of the People. And now that he was enlisted in their ranks, he felt it behoved him to live up to their exalted principles. Therefore he gave a shilling to the crossing-sweeper at the bottom of Saint James's Street, and, like a true democrat, proceeded on foot to the little nest in Knightsbridge, instead of going like the son of a lord in a taxi.
Mary was buried in a delightfully comfortable chair with her toes on the fender. She was also reading a novel; and out of our love for her we must really withhold the name of the author.
. . . No, young ladies of Newnham and Girton, the name of the author was not Monsieur Anatole France.
"I've done it, old girl," said Mr. Philip, bursting in upon her and saluting her, of course, in the manner ordained by custom for newly-married people. "I really think they are going to take me on."
Strictly speaking, young man, you had not done it. It was Mary who had done all the doing so far;
