Mrs Drawbell had set herself to catch old Bevill for a social engagement; he had refused tea or dinner, and insisted on returning to London that night, but he had not been able to elude this last invitation, a ‘little party’ before we caught the train. Most of the senior Barford staff were already there, and I found my way to a corner next to Walter Luke. From near the window we looked into the centre of the room, where upon the hearthrug Mrs Drawbell, a heavy woman, massive as a monument upon the rug, waited for the Minister. ‘Where is this uncle?’ said Luke. ‘He’ll come,’ I said. The Minister has not been known to break a social engagement. Luke’s thoughts became canalized once more. ‘Does he believe in Jojo?’ (Luke’s proposal already had a name.) He corrected himself. ‘I don’t care whether he believes in it or not. The point is, will he do anything useful about it?’ I said that I thought he was well disposed, but would not find it easy to put through. ‘There are times,’ said Luke, ‘when I get sick and tired of you wise old men.’ Wholehearted and surgent, he said: ‘Well, I suppose I’d better mobilize some of the chaps who really know against all you stuffed shirts.’ I was warning him to go carefully (he would still listen to me, even when he was regarding me as a ‘wise old man’) when the Minister entered.
