 for the credit of Englishmen, to be
constrained to inform you that the Party has not triumphed without being put to
an enormous expense. Hundreds,« says Sir Leicester, eyeing the cousins with
increasing dignity and swelling indignation, »hundreds of thousands of pounds!«
    If Volumnia have a fault, it is the fault of being a trifle too innocent;
seeing that the innocence which would go extremely well with a sash and tucker,
is a little out of keeping with the rouge and pearl necklace. Howbeit, impelled
by innocence, she asks,
    »What for?«
    »Volumnia,« remonstrates Sir Leicester, with his utmost severity.
»Volumnia!«
    »No, no, I don't mean what for,« cries Volumnia, with her favourite little
scream. »How stupid I am! I mean what a pity!«
    »I am glad,« returns Sir Leicester, »that you do mean what a pity.«
    Volumnia hastens to express her opinion that the shocking people ought to be
tried as traitors, and made to support the Party.
    »I am glad, Volumnia,« repeats Sir Leicester, unmindful of these mollifying
sentiments, »that you do mean what a pity. It is disgraceful to the electors.
But as you, though inadvertently, and without intending so unreasonable a
question, asked me what for? let me reply to you. For necessary expenses. And I
trust to your good sense, Volumnia, not to pursue the subject, here or
elsewhere.«
    Sir Leicester feels it incumbent on him to observe a crushing aspect towards
Volumnia, because it is whispered abroad that these necessary expenses will, in
some two hundred election petitions, be unpleasantly connected with the word
bribery; and because some graceless jokers have consequently suggested the
omission from the Church service of the ordinary supplication in behalf of the
High Court of Parliament, and have recommended instead that the prayers of the
congregation be requested for six hundred and fifty-eight gentlemen in a very
unhealthy state.
    »I suppose,« observes Volumnia, having taken a little time to recover her
spirits after her late castigation, »I suppose Mr. Tulkinghorn has been worked
to death.«
    »I don't know,« says Sir Leicester, opening his eyes, »why Mr. Tulkinghorn
should be worked to death. I don't know what Mr. Tulkinghorn's engagements may
be. He is not a candidate.«
    Volumnia had thought he might have been employed. Sir Leicester could desire
to know by whom, and what for? Volumnia, abashed again, suggests, by
