Dorothy Eden Read Online Free PDF Page B

unmistakably met hers, for he half-raised his hand in greeting. She gave a small non-committal nod, then realised that her hand was pressed to her suddenly accelerated heart, which must have completely given away her emotions if anyone had been observing her closely.
    Fortunately the speaker at that moment was the Prime Minister himself. With his famous presence, his crest of white hair, his fierce eyes and his boldly jutting nose, he held the attention of everyone except, apparently, the Irish member who had been more interested in the movement in the Ladies’ Gallery.
    Katharine wondered how many glances he had cast in that direction before she had come. She felt her cheeks glowing, and was glad there was no one here to recognise her. The only visitor she herself recognised was Mr. Gladstone’s daughter Mary who was deeply devoted to her father, and often came to listen to him.
    She tried to pay attention to the matter being discussed. It was about the dangerously primitive condition of the Welsh coal mines, and the employment of children who were no better treated than pit ponies. It was a distressing subject and Katharine should have been moved by it. She should also have been interested in recognising other prominent figures, Mr. Joseph Chamberlain, tall, sallow-faced, with his bland but acute glance, the Honourable Charles Dilke who had a gleaming roving eye, young Lord Randolph Churchill fixing a glassy gaze on the speaker, Mr. Disraeli, now Lord Beaconsfield, putting a hand to his black carefully-arranged ringlets.
    But she only noticed that in the middle of the Prime Minister’s speech Mr. Parnell had unfolded his long legs, stood up, and unobtrusively left the chamber. Presently there was a muffled disturbance behind her. Someone said, “S’sh!” A tall form slid into the seat beside her. Under cover of some scattered applause which Mr. Gladstone had earned for himself, the already familiar voice said, “I just came up to say good-day to you, Mrs. O’Shea. It’s nice to see you here.”
    She noticed that he was wearing a white rose in his buttonhole. If it meant what she suspected she was deeply pleased.
    “Is anything interesting happening this afternoon?”
    “No. The Prime Minister will go on about coal mines for the next hour or more.”
    “You won’t be speaking?”
    “Not today. Unless something comes up later this evening.”
    Someone said, “Hush!” and they had to be silent while Mr. Gladstone’s eloquent voice rang through the House. Mr. Parnell stood up.
    “I shall look for you here again,” he whispered.
    Then he was gone, and she spent the next half-hour convincing herself that such an exchange of words had been completely without significance. They could have been shouted to the whole house.
    What was not so insignificant was the way her cheeks burned and her heart raced so that the lace on her bodice fluttered. It was absurd to feel like that simply because he had taken the trouble to come up and speak to her. If she were going to behave like this she would have to give up this absorbing new interest in politics.
    It would never do for there to be a scandal involving the leader of the Irish party.
    Yet, on her next visit, when Mr. Parnell made his greeting, this time casually touching the rose in his buttonhole, but did not come up to speak to her, she was acutely disappointed. It was no use telling herself that Mr. Biggar was in the midst of one of his interminable rambling speeches that was making the House yawn and fidget, and that no doubt Mr. Parnell was anticipating going to his assistance if the flow of words failed him. The Irish party was engaged in one of its celebrated obstructive measures that would probably keep the House sitting until midnight. She was selfish enough to think Ireland as tiresome as everyone else did, and wondered only when Mr. Parnell would be free to come up and exchange a few words with her.
    For two days after that she was unable to come to town.