MEANWHILE there were other things to raise Mr. Cato’s spirits. Parliament was back. The Government still held good, it is true, in spite of all rumours to the contrary; but opposition is exhilarating. Best of all, the Privy Council was in session. The Crown Officers, worn out with long obstructive sittings, made a poor fight of it: a dispute about a bit of land in Borneo was a small matter compared with the fate of a historic party. The judges were favourably impressed by the brusque appositeness of Mr. Cato’s counsel.
When Mr. Cato came back one day in a four-wheeler instead of the omnibus, his sisters knew that something extraordinary had happened.
‘We’ve won!’ he cried, sinking, smiling and exhausted, into an armchair.
Everybody shook hands with Dwala.
‘Thank you, thank you,’ he said, pressing each hand delicately, and laying his left hand on the top of it, in a graceful and engaging way which Mr. Wemyss had taught him. ‘You’re very kind.’ But he had no understanding of the news. Only at dinner, when a gold-necked bottle of Christmas champagne was produced and they all drank his health, he began to realise that it was something solemn and important.