Clement Yule took several steps; the effect of his host was the reverse of soothing; yet the latter watched his irritation as if it were the working of a charm. "Are you very sure of the 'honour' if I turn my political coat?"
"You'll only be turning it back again to the way it was always worn. Gossage will receive you with open arms and press you to a heaving Tory bosom. That bosom"—Mr. "Prodmore followed himself up—"has never heaved but to sound Conservative principles. The cradle, as I've called it,—or at least the rich, warm coverlet,—of your race, Gossage was the political property, so to speak, of generations of your family. Stand therefore in the good old interest and you'll stand like a lion."
"I'm afraid you mean," Captain Yule laughed, "that I must first roar like one."
"Oh, I'll do the roaring!"—and Mr. Prodmore shook his mane. "Leave that to me."
"Then why the deuce don't you stand yourself?"
Mr. Prodmore knew so familiarly why! "Because I'm not a remarkably handsome young man with the grand old home and the right old name. Because I'm a different sort of matter altogether. But if I haven't these advantages," he went on,
