A Prince of Sinners | Page 2

carriage waiting, and you're
going straight home with me to have a bite and a glass of wine. We
can't afford to lose our second agent, and I can see what's the matter
with you. You're as pale as a ghost, and no wonder. You've been at it
all day and never a break."

The young man called Brooks had not the energy to frame a refusal,
which he knew would be resented. He took down his overcoat, and
stuffed the letters into his pocket.
"You're very good," he said. "I'll come up for an hour with pleasure."
They passed out together into the street, and Mr. Bullsom opened the
door of his carriage.
"In with you, young man," he exclaimed. "Home, George!"
Kingston Brooks leaned back amongst the cushions with a little sigh of
relief.
"This is very restful," he remarked. "We have certainly had a very busy
day. The inside of electioneering may be disenchanting, but it's jolly
hard work."
Mr. Bullsom sat with clasped hands in front of him resting upon that
slight protuberance which denoted the advent of a stomach. He had
thrown away the cigar which he had lit in the committee-room. Mrs.
Bullsom did not approve of smoking in the covered wagonette, which
she frequently honoured with her presence.
"There's nothing in the world worth having that hasn't to be worked for,
my boy," he declared, good-humoredly.
"By other people!" Brooks remarked, smiling.
"That's as it may be," Mr. Bullsom admitted. "To my mind that's where
the art of the thing comes in. Any fool can work, but it takes a shrewd
man to keep a lot of others working hard for him while he pockets the
oof himself."
"I suppose," the younger man remarked, thoughtfully, "that you would
consider Mr. Henslow a shrewd man?"
"Shrewd! Oh, Henslow's shrewd enough. There's no question about
that!"

"And honest?"
Mr. Bullsom hesitated. He drew his hand down his stubbly grey beard.
"Honest! Oh, yes, he's honest! You've no fault to find with him, eh?"
"None whatever," Brooks hastened to say. "You see," he continued
more slowly, "I have never been really behind the scenes in this sort of
thing before, and Henslow has such a very earnest manner in speaking.
He talked to the working men last night as though his one desire in life
was to further the different radical schemes which we have on the
programme. Why, the tears were actually in his eyes when he spoke of
the Old Age Pension Bill. He told them over and over again that the
passing of that Bill was the one object of his political career. Then, you
know, there was the luncheon to-day--and I fancied that he was a little
flippant about the labour vote. It was perhaps only his way of
speaking."
Mr. Bullsom smiled and rubbed the carriage window with the cuff of
his coat. He was very hungry.
"Oh, well, a politician has to trim a little, you know," he remarked.
"Votes he must have, and Henslow has a very good idea how to get
them. Here we are, thank goodness." The carriage had turned up a short
drive, and deposited them before the door of a highly ornate villa. Mr.
Bullsom led the way indoors, and himself took charge of his guest's
coat and hat. Then he opened the door of the drawing-room.
"Mrs. Bullsom and the girls," he remarked, urbanely, "will be delighted
to see you. Come in!"
CHAPTER II
THE BULLSOM FAMILY AT HOME
There were fans upon the wall, and much bric-a-brac of Oriental shape
but Brummagem finish, a complete suite of drawing-room furniture,
incandescent lights of fierce brilliancy, and a pianola. Mrs. Peter

Bullsom, stout and shiny in black silk and a chatelaine, was dozing
peacefully in a chair, with the latest novel from the circulating library
in her lap; whilst her two daughters, in evening blouses, which were
somehow suggestive of the odd elevenpence, were engrossed in more
serious occupation. Louise, the elder, whose budding resemblance to
her mother was already a protection against the over-amorous youths of
the town, was reading a political speech in the Times. Selina, who had
sandy hair, a slight figure, and was considered by her family the
essence of refinement, was struggling with a volume of Cowper, who
had been recommended to her by a librarian with a sense of humour, as
a poet unlikely to bring a blush into her virginal cheeks. Mr. Bullsom
looked in upon his domestic circle with pardonable pride, and with a
little flourish introduced his guest.
"Mrs. Bullsom," he said, "this is my young friend, Kingston Brooks.
My two daughters, sir, Louise and Selina." The ladies were gracious,
but had the air of being taken by surprise, which, considering Mr.
Bullsom's parting words a few hours ago,