He had passed a strenuous day at Hickney Heath, lunching in the committee room on sandwiches and whisky and soda obtained from the nearest tavern, talking, inventing, dictating, writing, playing upon dull minds the flashes of his organizing genius.

His committee was held up for the while by a dark rift in the Radical camp.

They had not yet chosen their man.

Nothing was known, save that a certain John Questerhayes, K.C., an eminent Chancery barrister, who had of late made himself conspicuous in the constituency, had been turned down on the ground that he was not sufficiently progressive.

Now for comfort to the Radical the term "Progressive" licks the blessed word Mesopotamia into a cocked hat.
Under the Progressive's sad-coloured cloak he need not wear the red tie of the socialist.