The Prime Minister sat in a deep, leather-lined chair in his new room, dreaming in the dusk of evening over the coming years and achievements of his Premiership as a brooding hen mothers in prospect the chickens she is yet to hatch. It was a long vista down which his fancy wandered, of peace and adroitness and delicate handlings, of careful managing and gentle rosewater revolutions, above all, of placid, unwavering majorities. A pleasant waking dream, through which the refrain “Toujours Balfour” trickled with the soothing murmur of a meadow stream. A sigh at his elbow broke in upon his musings like a dead rook falling with insistent thud from the silence of a sleeping rookery, and he turned to find a woman standing beside him — a woman with pale, almost frightened face, but with an underlying air of resolution that bordered on defiance.
“Efficiency!” he said; “you here. Here, of all places!”
“You are displeased to see me here?”
“Not displeased, exactly, but I can scarcely believe it. You must see that you cannot possibly stay here.”
“Yet at one time you used to be proud to be seen with me. I suppose I was useful to you at election times, when things did not go so easily for you as they do now. You used to take me to your arms, then, and I think you really cared for me[,] just a little.”
“Of course I admire you very much still, and I often talk about you[,] really I do, though we’ve seen so little of each other lately[.] But you can’t reasonably expect me to dislocate my whole career and habits.”
“I might be so helpful to you. In times of crisis, for instance, the consciousness that you had me by your side—“
“In times of crisis and perplexity I simply get in a man from the street to act as caretaker, and I become again as a little child, innocent of all things[.] I have always found that answer admirably hitherto[.] And it would never do, for many reasons, to take you into my establishment; you would inevitably make your presence felt in so many departments. There is my brother and other members of the family group to be considered[—]they would never be able to fit into your ways.”
“You are keeping back the real reason from me, possibly because you wish to spare my feelings. You love another. Do I know her name?”
The Prime Minister hesitated for a moment, then answered softly, as one who caresses a tradition, “Laissez Faire.”
“That old thing! I should have thought you were tired to death of her years ago.”
“Hush, don’t say spiteful things. She may not be brilliant or particularly modern, but you cannot think what a solace it is to a man, tired with his golf or jaded with his philosophical studies, to turn to someone who asks little, exacts nothing.”
“And does nothing, knows nothing, and is dowdy without being cheap. So it is for her that I am put on one side!”
“And you, are you so very constant in your affections? Why do people couple your name so freely with that of my rival and sometime predecessor in the Premiership?”
“Perhaps because he has shown me attention where you have only offered neglect. Remember, if I have no longer attractions for you, there are others.”
The Minister flushed with a sudden unreasoning jealousy. “He cannot give you what I can, a permanent home and a share in all that is going—“
Then, checking himself, he added more gently, “What am I saying? Dear lady, I can never be more to you than a friend. You may come and drink tea with me sometimes on the Terrace, and I shall always be glad to see you — at Manchester. But you must never come here again. It is no place for you.”
Then he held the door open for his unbidden guest. Her foot-steps sounded down the staircase like the hollow menace of a receding drum, and he tried to fancy that its time-beat remotely harmonised with the lingering refrain “Toujours Balfour.”
With a sigh of relief he sank back into the depths of his armchair.
“It was dreadful” he murmured, “but how brave I was! That shall be the keynote of my Administration; we will be gently courageous. Every notable Administration gets a nickname: they will call us—yes, they will call us the League of the Poor Brave Things.”
(First published in The Westminster Gazette, Tuesday, July 22, 1902. I have added a few pieces of punctuation that are either invisible or missing from the copy I worked from.)